


an ocean away from home

by thebaddestwolf



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-10-19 08:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebaddestwolf/pseuds/thebaddestwolf
Summary: This trip has barely even started and it’s already too nostalgic. It feels too much like the PR trips they took in the early days, when everything was exciting and new and she may or may not have had a substantial and unrequited crush on a certain coworker.or the time Brad and Claire go on a press trip to Spain and no one can sleep





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welp after reading most of the fics for these two I had to go and write one of my own. there will be one more chapter (most likely) coming soon. lmk what you think!!
> 
> (apparently we have to specify that it's not cool to share rpf with the outside world now so. be cool. don't do that.)

Madrid is far too hot for Claire’s liking.

She has to give herself a mini pep talk before stepping out of the cab and into bright, autumn sunlight. And sure, maybe a jumpsuit wasn’t the best choice for this weather, but they’re just so comfortable and, honestly, she didn’t think Spain got into the nineties in September.

Besides, it’s not her fault she didn’t have time to check the forecast before leaving New York. The trip was last minute -- part of Rapoport’s Hail Mary attempt to hit a quarterly goal of growing BA’s global audience.

She almost said no -- she likes planning and structure, and a last-minute trip to Europe is detrimental to both -- but then Rapo told her Brad was going, and Brad was all, “Come on Claire, we’ll eat so much pie-yay-ah!” and the next thing she knew her flight was booked.

So Madrid is far too hot for Claire’s liking, but as she lugs her suitcase over the cobblestones leading to the hotel entrance she’s smiling nonetheless.

***

Brad had flown out to Spain a few days earlier to shoot a couple episodes of his show about cava and Spanish olives. Claire knows he’s not supposed to get back to the hotel until tonight, but she scans the lobby for him anyway while she waits to get her room key.

Then she smirks to herself, because there’s no chance she wouldn’t _hear_ him before she saw him. She’s stayed in enough hotels with Brad to know that.

The thought makes Claire squeeze her eyes shut and pinch the bridge of her nose. This trip has barely even started and it’s already too nostalgic. It feels too much like the PR trips they took in the early days, when everything was exciting and new and she may or may not have had a substantial and unrequited crush on a certain coworker that took ages to tamp down.

The hotel reception staffer calls her over and it’s not a moment too soon, because she’s done thinking about that. It doesn’t have to be a whole thing. It’ll be fine.

***

The air conditioner in the room is already on full blast when Claire walks in, and she’s never been so grateful. The room is pretty nice, and it doesn’t hurt that she’s on the eleventh floor with plenty of windows that show a sweeping view of the city.

Her plan was to force herself to stay up until eight or nine o’clock to try to beat the jet lag, but the kingsize bed looks so inviting that she can’t resist kicking off her shoes and crawling under the fluffy white duvet. She debates setting an alarm but decides it’s not necessary -- she’ll just rest her eyes for a little while.

***

The next thing Claire knows she’s waking up and has no idea where she is. The room is almost completely dark and it takes her a moment to put it all together. She presses her face into a soft, soft pillow and groans. She’s still exhausted, but if she doesn’t get up now she’ll never get her body on local time. She has enough sleep issues as it is.

So she drags herself out of bed, brushes her teeth, washes her face, and puts on some fresh clothes (a romper -- summer’s jumpsuit). Her stomach has apparently woken up too and is grumbling for all its worth. She searches a desk by the window for a room service menu to no avail (or at least nothing in English) and the minibar only has a can of plain Pringles (_ugh_), €7 bottles of water, and a packet of unsalted Marcona almonds.

Tilting her head back and groaning once more for good measure, Claire slips on some flip flops, grabs her room key, and set out to find something to eat.

***

In the World Trade Center the eleventh floor is practically the ground floor in the grand scheme of things. From there all you can see is scaffolding and the windows of neighboring buildings. It’s not uncommon to hear BA staffers grumble about people on the “lower floors” taking the elevator instead of walking up the stairs. (Which is unfair, but when Claire’s running late and the elevator stops on practically every floor she thinks she might agree.)

But in this hotel in Spain, where floor eleven is just three stories from the top, it’s apparently akin to climbing Mount Everest for the elevator, which takes its sweet-ass time making its way up.

The car is empty when it finally arrives but it doesn’t stay that way for long, stopping for a businessman on the tenth floor and a mom corralling two kids on the ninth. So just like on her morning commute, Claire stops paying attention and resigns herself to taking up as little space as possible in the corner as she scrolls through her phone.

She barely notices the elevator doors ding at the seventh floor until she hears a voice say, “Hooo boy, tight squeeze in here,” and then Claire’s smiling before she even looks up.

When she does she sees Brad basically backing onto the elevator, like a car reversing. A five-speed, probably. Whatever gear ‘reverse’ is. If that even is a gear. She should really remind him about that driving lesson he promised….

“Gotta suck it in,” he’s saying, to no one in particular. “Shouldn’t have had so much tapas for lunch.”

He didn’t see her, a fact she knows because he hasn’t shouted her name and stormed through the other passengers to get to her. Because he would do that. That’s one of her favorite things about him -- how it seems like seeing her is the best part of his day.

Part of her is dying to say his name and set those events in motion, but it really is jammed in here and she so rarely gets to see him when his attention isn’t laser-focused on her, so she stays quiet. He’s at least a head taller than everyone else in the elevator, which makes her smile even more for some reason.

His hair is kinda wild in the back, like he just took his hat off, and he really is sucking in his stomach, but in a comical way, chest puffed and shoulders squared. She has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from bursting out laughing. He’s taking shallow breaths, too. Maybe he thinks they’ll run out of oxygen. (At the rate the car is moving, maybe he’s not wrong.)

When they finally reach the ground floor Brad nods at a man who had squeezed in next to him and takes off striding across the lobby. Claire sighs, cursing him for always walking like he’s on a mission. She shuffles forward behind the slow-moving crowd until she’s finally out of the lift and can jog after him.

He’s too fast, or she’s too tired, and she gives up halfway across the tiled floor, dropping her arms by her side, defeated.

“Brad!” she shouts before she can think better of it.

It’s not her best effort. She’s groggy and her voice comes out weak (and a little whiny, if she’s honest) but it doesn’t matter because it stops him in his tracks.

Brad turns around with a look of shock and elation on his face -- like he never expected to see her, of all people, here in this place -- and the part of her that is happy to see him overrides the part that wants to remind him about the itinerary she emailed a mere 12 hours earlier.

She waves, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt, and lets him jog over to her. He’s in gray jeans and a black tee with some Spanish words on it, and she’d bet money it’s from the winery he was at this afternoon. He probably loved the place so much he couldn’t wait to wear it. She has a feeling he’s one of those people who wears the band’s t-shirt at their concert and doesn’t care that it’s not cool. He just loves things that hard.

“Hi!” she says when he gets close.

He’s still grinning from ear to ear when he comes to a stop in front of her. “It’s ‘hola,’ Claire,” he says, trying to school his face into a serious expression. “In Spain we say ‘hola.’”

She shakes her head at him, smiling too wide still but not caring. It’s dumb because she basically saw him yesterday, but she’s kinda missed him, and he’s truly a sight for sore eyes. He’s standing pretty close, now, and she has to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. She, as always, decides to humor him.

“Hola, Brad.”

It’s stupid and silly but he grins like he’s proud of her. There’s an awkward beat where they’re just smiling at each other, standing in the middle of the lobby, probably in everyone’s way. But then Brad sways forward at the same time that she lifts up onto her toes and wraps her arms around him. Brad laughs, almost like he’s surprised, but he hugs her back right away.

In New York they would never do this (not sober, at least) but she’s exhausted and they’re an ocean away from home and she’ll never admit it, but he smells really, really good. She wonders if he thinks it’s weird -- holding each other like this -- but his arms tighten around her and she stops caring.

“Hi Claire,” he says quietly. His voice is soft and close and she images how he must look right now, stooping to get nearer to her.

She closes her eyes and lets out a long breath.

“Hi Brad.”

***

Claire really shouldn’t have napped.

Her body is incredibly confused. She yawned all through dinner with Brad at the hotel bar, so tired she could barely make the appropriate ‘I’m listening’ faces while he went on and on about his day in the Spanish countryside.

Eventually he stopped mid sentence, looked at her sideways, and said, “Let’s get you to bed, Claire.”

If she’d had more gas in her tank, him saying those words to her while would’ve registered on a deeper level. But before they could sink in she heard herself saying, “No, no, I’m fine,” largely out of habit, and was relieved when he ignored her and motioned to the bartender for the bill.

But once they parted ways and she finally crawled back into bed, sleep wouldn’t come. She lay under the covers, tossing and turning, thinking about things she promised herself she wouldn’t.

It must’ve been after four in the morning when she finally drifted off, only to be awakened by her alarm two hours later.

***

A little espresso goes a long way, Claire has found, and a lot of espresso goes even longer. This is how she gets through her first day of press, which primarily takes place at another hotel a few blocks away.

She and Brad do some joint interviews in the morning, and while she doesn’t have the steam to chat much between talking to journalists and vloggers he stays close, fetching her more coffee whenever he sees her gaze longingly at the Nespresso machine in the corner.

In her overtired state, it’s too easy for Claire to dwell on how nice it is to feel taken care of and how grateful she has to have a friend who looks after her so much. When he hands her her third cup of coffee (or is it her fourth?) their fingers touch, and it reminds her of how good it felt to hug him last night. She’s always leaned on him emotionally, but as he settles in the interview chair beside her she’s tempted to literally lean on him, to rest her head on his shoulder and siphon some of his never-ending energy.

Brad waves his hand in front of her face. “You okay, Saffitz?”

Claire blinks rapidly, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. “Yeah, yeah.” She brings the cup to her lips and glances up at him, but can’t hold his eye for too long.

“Thought I lost you there for a minute.”

“No. No, I’m good.”

“Poor sleepy Half-Sour.” Brad jostles her with his shoulder. “After that cup you’ll have, like, 200 miligrams of caffeine in you. That’ll perk you right up, Claire. Today’s gonna be great, you’ll see. Totally muy bueno.”

She almost believes him, but after a few hours Brad has to head out to shoot some B-roll on the outskirts of the city and Claire’s left to figure out how to work the little espresso pods on her own. One of the guys from BA’s parent company (Marco, she thinks) eventually takes pity on her and runs out to a cafe for a real cappuccino, and she’s so happy when he hands it to her she thinks she might cry.

Maybe that’s why she agrees to join him and his friends on a pub crawl the next night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brad & claire still can't sleep; still are super into each other; still pretend they're just friends!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who spent the last few days sleep deprived in a hotel, writing about two dummies who are sleep deprived in a hotel?? (this guy.)
> 
> and hey this will be at least one more chapter woo
> 
> I loved hearing about your favorite parts of chapt 1 (thank you so much!) so lmk what you think of this one :D

Claire’s somewhere between the twelfth and thirteenth floors when she realizes she’s still wearing the complimentary hotel slippers she’d put on earlier. She debates the merits of going back down to her room for some less embarrassing footwear, but ultimately decides against it. She can’t bear the thought of being back in her room -- the place where sleep goes to die, apparently -- even for a few seconds. Besides, not many people can be up at this hour anyhow.

The elevator dings as the doors open onto the top floor and Claire steps out into the hallway, following the soft sounds of music coming from the bar. She figured if she can’t sleep, she may as well enjoy a view of the city, and their hotel purportedly has one of the best.

The bar is more crowded than she anticipated (she remembers that in Spain dinner doesn’t even start until, like eleven) but she’s still able to find a leather armchair that is secluded enough for her liking. She optimistically orders a glass of merlot (on the off chance it’ll make her sleepy), tucks one foot underneath her, and opens her Kindle.

The wine, frustratingly but unsurprisingly, doesn’t help and she can’t settle on what to read, going back and forth between a novel that’s too detailed for her current attention span and a book of essays that’s too facetious for her current mood.

She leans her head back against the chair and sighs. Biting her lip, she picks up her phone and opens her last text from Brad. Her thumb hovers over the keyboard. He must be a heavy sleeper, right? She doesn’t want to risk waking him up, but he’s the only person she knows in the whole country and on the off chance that he’s awake....

**2:53 a.m.**   
whatcha reading?

Claire startles when the text comes in from Brad, placing her free hand on her chest as she gasps. She looks around, searching for him, when her phone vibrates again.

**2:53 a.m.**   
sry. forgot you scare easily

She scans the room again, but it’s dark and her distance vision is going so she types out a reply.

**2:54 a.m.**   
WHERE ARE YOU

She’s barely hit send when someone steps in front of her.

“Oh, hi Claire.”

“Jesus, Brad!”

She jumps again and bursts out laughing, holding her palm up to him like she does at work when he’s too much.

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He plops down in the empty chair across from her and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in an overpriced hotel bar like this?” he asks. Then, when Claire rolls her eyes, “That’s a line from a movie right? Always wanted to say that.”

“Yeah, something like that.” Claire presses her lips together, already feeling infinitely better than she did a few minutes ago. “I came up here because I couldn’t sleep.”

Brad’s eyes go wide. “_Still_?”

She shrugs, feeling more defeated than she has any right to. She usually can accomplish anything she sets her mind to, eventually, but sleep has always been a bit of a struggle, and long-haul flights and time changes have only further complicated things.

As if sensing her mood, Brad leans forward and squeezes her knee.

“Me neither,” he says.

“What, really?” Claire’s face lights up at this new information. She loves learning new things about Brad, especially after all this time, when she feels like she knows everything about him. “I always imagined you were one of those people who’s out like a light when their head hits the pillow.”

“Nooo-” Brad starts, then he raises his eyebrows. “Oh you imagined that, did ya?”

Claire huffs and gestures wildly, hopefully conveying that she thinks he’s being ridiculous, while inside her heart is racing.

“Whatever, Brad. You know what I mean.”

He smirks and sits back in his chair, removing his hand from her knee. She hadn’t fully registered that he’d been touching her that whole time, and she feels a delayed flush creep up her chest.

“Nah, I wish. Too much _stuff_ swirling around up here,” he says, pointing at temple. “Can’t always get the thoughts to quiet down. Especially in hotels. They’re like too sterile or something, you know? Like a hospital.”

“Uh-huh.” Claire frowns, thinking of her room’s white duvet and white carpet and white walls. “We should’ve gotten an Airbnb.”

And before she can panic at what she just said, at the imagery it calls up in her sleep-addled mind, Brad hollers and claps his hands together.

“Now you’re thinking, Claire. Let’s pitch that to Rapo when we get back.”

***

Soon Claire’s Kindle is long forgotten as they settle into easy, familiar conversation about their days. Eventually Brad convinces her to go sit out on the balcony so they can be closer to where the jazz band is performing.

He guides her, fingers ghosting her lower back, directly to an outdoor sofa that has a familiar-looking green jacket hanging over one arm.

“Oh good, it’s still here.” He picks it up and plops down on the cushions, motioning for her to sit beside him.

Claire laughs as she settles in next to him. “Did you forget that or leave it to save your seat?”

“Uhh… yes.”

“Wait, yes to which?”

“So many questions, Claire. It’s like... It’s like the… the... The Spanish Inquisition!”

She has to tip her head back to laugh at that one. “Sure it is, Brad.”

Claire’s armchair by the bar was more comfortable, but she’s glad he dragged her out here. The balcony is pretty empty and from their seats they have a great view of the city, twinkling and very much alive, even at this hour. They sit quietly for a while, listening to the band and looking out past the streetlights.

“I think that’s where Sierra del Norte is,” Claire says, pointing off to the right.

“Mmm what now?”

She laughs. “Sierra del Norte. It’s one of the closest mountains to Madrid -- I read about it on the flight over. If it was light out, I think we could see it just over there.”

Brad follows her finger and squints, like if he just tries hard enough, maybe he’ll be able to see it now. His gaze drops to Claire’s outstretched arm, trailing from her pointing finger to her forearm, and it shouldn’t -- it really shouldn’t -- but it makes her pulse speed up.

“Claire!”

She jolts, dropping her arm to her lap. “What?!”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Why didn’t I…” He can’t read minds -- of this she’s sure -- but she’s stammering like she’s been caught out. “What??”

“You’re cold,” he tells her. “You have goosebumps. Look.” He gently takes her wrist and lifts her arm so that it’s eye-level. “See?”

Claire swallows and forces out laugh. “Oh yeah.” If she didn’t have goosebumps before, she definitely does now. “Guess so.”

He lets go of her, fingers brushing along the inside of her wrist. But before she can even dwell on his touch he’s gesturing again, this time toward her feet.

“And what’s with this? What are these?”

Claire’s brow furrows. “Slippers?”

“Jeez, you really must be tired, Claire,” he tuts, reaching to where her legs are partially tucked beneath her to feel the cheap monogrammed cotton. “Unprepared for the elements... Wearing slippers in a bar...”

There are a lot of thoughts and emotions swirling in Claire’s mind, but she decides to latch onto the safest one -- indignation.

“It was so hot out earlier!” She scowls at him like he’s just questioned one of her baking methods. “How should I know it gets cold at night? And… and I forgot I was wearing the slippers, okay? I didn’t think anyone would be up here.”

Brad sighs, looking at her like he doesn’t know what he’ll do with her. He turns away from her and she’s about to launch into a rant about siestas and Spain’s late night culture when he drapes his jacket over her lap.

“Oh… I, um-”

He holds up a finger, signalling he’s not done yet, and Claire pipes down. Then he reaches over his head to pull off his hoodie, which he only gets stuck in very briefly. Claire’s hiding a smile against her shoulder when he frees himself and hands it to her.

“Here,” he says, grinning proudly.

“Thanks.” She smiles up at him. “Won’t you get cold?”

“Nah.” Brad shrugs, watching as she slips the sweatshirt on. “I run hot.”

Claire didn’t realize how cold she was until she’s fully enveloped by his hoodie. Seeing her wearing it is highly amusing to Brad, who laughs at how long the sleeves are on her and how “there’s enough room for two Claires!” but she doesn’t care because it’s warm with his body heat and it smells like him and for the first time all night she actually feels sleepy.

When she yawns Brad raises his eyebrows, but she grasps his arm before he can speak.

“Shh. You’ll scare it off.”

He shakes his head at her like he does when he thinks she’s being a crazy lady, but he stays quiet. And maybe it’s because exhaustion has made her bold, or maybe she just feels bad for him out here on the balcony in just jeans and a t-shirt while she wears half of his clothes; whatever the reason, Claire doesn’t hesitate or over-think as she shifts on the sofa so she can rest her head on Brad’s shoulder.

Once she gets the nerve to glance up at him he’s looking at her with an expression she’s never seen before. She doesn’t have time to put her finger on what it means before the look is gone, replaced by his trademark goofy smirk.

“Comfy?”

She blinks up at him, smirking right back. “Mm-hm.” It's a new angle, looking at him from here, and it should feel weird or awkward but it just... doesn't.

Brad clears his throat, shifting beneath her, and Claire panics. She must’ve made him uncomfortable, crossed that invisible line that apparently is somewhere between sharing the clothes off your back and resting your head on a shoulder. She’s about to go back to her cushion and play it off like a joke when Brad moves the arm she was leaning on and carefully wraps it around her.

“If you’re gonna get comfy, you may as well get _comfy_, Claire.” His tone is casual and joking, but his touch is so gentle and hesitant it’s a wonder she’s able to breathe out a laugh.

“Thanks, Brad.”

She takes him at his word and settles against him, adjusting his jacket-turned-blanket over her legs before resting her cheek on his chest. She’s not sure what to do with her arms. She tries crossing them but it feels weird, so she winds up wedging her hands between her knees. Once she’s done she trains her eyes on the band and hopes that’s where he’s looking too, because her face feels like it’s roma-tomato red right now.

She’s _cuddling_ with _Brad_ in _public_. She imagines how their coworkers would react if they saw them, and images of them high-fiving and exchanging money fill her mind. Oy.

“What?” Brad asks.

“Huh?”

“I can feel you laughing.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t thought about that. It’s hard to think about anything coherent when he’s solid and soft beneath her, when she can hear each breath he takes, each thump of his heart. “I, um…” Come on, Saffitz, get it together. “I was just... Is where you were spying on me from?”

“Spying?”

“Yeah earlier, when you were texting me and then basically jumped out at me like we’re in a Spanish horror movie.”

“Pfft, spying. Hard to miss the palest girl in Madrid sitting alone in a dark bar. You were practically, like, luniniscent. Is that right?”

“Luminous. And hey!” She swats at his chest “It’s not my fault I’m not, like, 37% Italian.”

Brad scoffs. “That hurts, Claire.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

***

The band is playing their last song of the night when Brad starts yawning. Claire’s eyes feel instantly heavier and she thinks she could actually nod off.

Under normal circumstances she would be embarrassed to fall asleep on Brad -- or any coworker, for that matter -- but here, tonight, sleep is too precious a commodity to resist, so she gives in, lets herself be pulled under.

***

“Claire.”

“Mmf.”

“Claire.”

“No.”

“Wow,” Brad laughs. “You really aren’t a morning person, huh?”

“Shhhh.” Claire whines and presses her nose into... Brad’s shirt. Oh, shit.

She slowly opens her eyes and finds that the band is packing up their instruments and that, aside from them, no one else is on the balcony. Claire feels moderately comforted that she can’t have been asleep for very long -- maybe five minutes or so -- but embarrassment still creeps up her spine as she sits up.

Brad smiles at her. “Hey sleepyhead.”

Claire combs her fingers through her hair and wills herself not to blush. “Shut up.”

“Hey, I’m not hating. Kinda jealous, actually.”

It’s then she notices the dark circles under his eyes, the red lines haloing his pupils. She feels kinda guilty about using him as a pillow when he’s just as bad-off as she is.

“Think you’ll be able to sleep?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll work out.” He stands and stretches, and if her eyes follow where his shirt rides up, no one is there to see. “Always does.”

“Ugh,” Claire says, but she’s smiling. “I wonder how you say ‘jar two-thirds full’ in Spanish.”

She giggles as Brad’s face brightens at the suggestion and barely registers it when she takes his offered hand to be pulled up. He calls out a “muchas gracias” across the balcony to the band, then takes his phone out of his pocket.

He only manages to get out “Hey Siri…” before Claire’s hanging onto his elbow, doubled over with laughter.

***

Siri isn’t good at translating incorrect metaphors, it turns out.

They’re still laughing about it when they reach Claire’s hotel room. She doesn’t remember deciding that he’d walk her to her door, but somehow that’s what’s happened. It’s nearly five in the morning and she was asleep on his chest mere minutes ago and now he’s shifting on his feet in the empty hallway, smiling shyly at her like it’s the end of a first date.

This whole trip is so fucking surreal.

“Yeah, so, um.” He’s stammering, clasping his hands together. “Hope you can get some shut-eye.”

“Thanks,” Claire says, biting her bottom lip. “You too.”

“Hah yeah. Me too.”

“Oh,” Claire says, remember she’s still holding his jacket. “Here.”

“Thanks. I’ll need this on the seventh floor. Gets pretty windy.”

“Uh-huh…”

They’re stalling and they both know it, but for whatever reason neither of them is ready to say goodbye just yet. There’s an awkward silence and Claire’s about to throw in the towel and just go inside when it comes to her.

“Oh, I meant to ask you.”

“Yeah?”

“That guy Marco? He and his buddies are doing this pub crawl tomorrow night and I said I’d go. Want to come?”

Brad gets that look in his eye and she sees the tease coming a mile away.

“Marco, huh?” He eyes her, rubbing his jaw with his palm.

“Brad…”

“No no, I’m just impressed. Marco’s making _moves_.”

“Oh my god. Do you wanna come or not?”

“I mean, a guy doesn’t want to step on any toes…”

“Brad!”

“Jesus, Claire, just because you can’t sleep doesn’t mean you should wake everyone else up.”

She glares at him, jaw set, and he puts his hands up in surrender, laughing.

“Yeah, man. Sounds cool. I’ll be there.”

“Okay. Good.” She’s still prickly from his insinuation and he’s still laughing at her, and it all feels too normal for the night they’ve had. “I’ll text you the details once I find out tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” He ducks his head and rocks back on his heels, smiling at her. “Goodnight, Claire.”

“Buenos noches, Brad.”

His eyes look more tired than she’s ever seen them, but he still beams at her like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.

“That’s the spirit, Claire! Buenos noches. Si!”

She watches him, laughing, as he walks down the hall. Only when he turns back to look at her does she remember to actually unlock the door to her room and go inside.

***

(She sleeps in his hoodie.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after spending the day apart, brad & claire get ready to finally leave for that pub crawl...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to live for your comments. looking forward to hearing your fav parts on this one!! 
> 
> also remember when this fic was gonna be 2 chapters l o l

Claire got a little more sleep last night, which is to say three hours instead of two. Well, three hours and five minutes, if she counts the nap she had on Brad’s chest.

Which she doesn’t. Because she’s not thinking about that. No, thinking about that would open a can of worms, which would lead to her getting even _less_ sleep.

She’s definitely not thinking about it as she folds Brad’s hoodie and places it on top of the dresser so she will remember to give it back to him later.

(She’s definitely not smiling to herself, either.)

***

They’re split up today. Brad’s off at a restaurant learning to make olive tapenade and Claire’s booked to do a cooking segment on a late night chat show. The studio where it tapes is in the suburbs of Madrid and she spends the cab ride over practicing her Spanish with Marco, who met her this morning with the most-appreciated venti Americano that’s ever been gifted.

It turns out that having a solid knowledge of French doesn’t give her a leg up on Spanish, and soon even the taxi driver is laughing at her pronunciation. Normally she’d be mildly frustrated by being slow on the uptake with language skills -- she picked up kitchen French easily enough -- but today she feels lighter than usual, so she just laughs along with them.

Marco is slowly repeating the correct way to say “Thanks, it’s nice to be here” when Claire’s phone vibrates.

**2:12 p.m.**  
hey claire

**2:12 p.m.**  
Yeah Brad?

**2:12 p.m.**  
say olive juice

**2:13 p.m.**  
Brad…

**2:13 p.m.**  
just Say it claire. out loud

**2:13 p.m.**  
It doesn’t work if you’re not here to *see* me say it

**2:13 p.m.**  
how do you know?

**2:14 p.m.**  
Because, believe it or not, I’ve heard this one before

**2:14 p.m.**  
What!! ugh the camera guy told it to me and I was frickin dying

**2:14 p.m.**  
lol it’s a good one. Sorry to disappoint

She punctuates her last text with a shrugging emoji, and doesn’t realize she has totally been neglecting Marco until she looks up to see him eyeing her.

“Boyfriend?” he asks.

Claire balks. “What?”

He nods to the phone in your hands. “That’s who you’re texting.”

“Oh.” Claire’s blushing and shaking her head before she can get the words out. “No, no. Hah, no boyfriend. That was just B-…” She stops herself, not wanting to give Marco the wrong idea. “Just a friend.”

For a split second she thinks he looks relieved, but she dismisses it. That’s just Brad getting in her head.

***

The chat show goes as well as can be expected. The audience laughed when she giggled through some broken Spanish, but she feels like they were laughing with her and that she got by on her cuteness (which she doesn’t see, but Chris told her that’s what people often comment about on her videos, so she’s had to concede it’s possible people perceive her that way).

The cab ride back to the hotel is quieter than the way there, which Claire appreciates. Marco calls one of his friends, and after a quick and animated conversation he hangs up and tells her that the pub crawl is going to leave from a bar in La Latina at 11 o’clock.

New York may be the city that never sleeps, but Claire’s pretty sure she hasn’t _started_ a night out so late since college. Her eyes bug out of her head a bit, but Marco sounds so excited that she plasters a smile on her face and tells him that sounds great.

***

**6:57 p.m.**  
well I mean we’ll be up anyway right?

**6:57 p.m.**  
Hah, yeah good point

**6:58 p.m.**  
how you holdin up?

**6:58 p.m.**  
Oh fine. The studio had a Nespresso too

**6:58 p.m.**  
nice! They love that shit here

**6:58 p.m.**  
lol they do. And I love them for it

**6:58 p.m.**  
how was filming? any stage fright??

**6:58 p.m.**  
It was good actually. We made doughnuts

**6:59 p.m.**  
no way!!

**6:59 p.m.**  
Not sourdough-nuts

**6:59 p.m.**  
oh

**6:59 p.m.**  
But they came out nicely. Though I’m concerned the segment largely perpetuated American stereotypes…

**6:59 p.m.**  
only you could come up with that sentence on a few hrs sleep claire

**6:59 p.m.**  
Thanks, Brad

**7:00 p.m.**  
did you use the Olive juice thing?

**7:00 p.m.**  
HAH no. I did not

**7:00 p.m.**  
oh man! that wouldve killed!!

**7:00 p.m.**  
Not sure it would’ve worked so well with the language barrier

**7:01 p.m.**  
okay ½ sour

***

Claire’s struggling to do up the zipper on her dress when there’s a knock at her door.

“Just a minute!” she calls out, looking around for something to cover up with. She spots the white hotel bathrobe just as whoever is at the door starts tapping out a rhythm with their knuckles. “Hang on,” she says, slipping the bathrobe on, annoyance level going from zero to one hundred real fast.

Somehow, she musters up a smile just as she opens the door. “Can I help… oh.”

“Hey Claire!” Brad brushes past her, practically bounding into the room. “I got bored, thought I’d come up. You took a while to open the door. Woah, check out the view up here!”

She’s still standing by the entryway, both the door and her mouth ajar. She lets the former swing shut while the latter morphs into a bemused smile. Hand on her hip, she watches him as he stands with his nose to the window looking out at the city, which is bathed in the last few moments of sunlight.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a checkered button-down shirt, and a look that would almost be business-casual if it wasn’t for the beanie and Vans. It seems like he’s cleaned up the edges of his usual scruff and Claire can’t help but appreciate the way it emphasizes his strong jaw. He’s wearing cologne, too -- she got a whiff of it when he walked past.

She smiles to herself. This is Dressed Up Brad™.

“Can you see that mountain you mentioned?” He turns to look at her for the first time since he burst in, eyes brimming with curiosity. His gaze travels down her body and Claire has to will herself not to look away. “Wait… you’re not even dressed?!”

Claire laughs loudly at that. It’s not the reaction she thought she’d get, but she’s glad for an opportunity to release the tension that was building in her. (Well, somewhat.)

“No, no I am.” She starts undoing the tie of the bathrobe and Brad’s eyes widen before he trains them on the carpet. “Oh my god, Brad. I have clothes under here -- I didn’t know who was at the door so I threw this on.”

“Hah. Oh,” he says, still not looking at her.

Claire rolls her eyes and goes to hang the robe up in the bathroom to give him a chance to chill out and to finish with the zipper. She bought this dress just for Spain. It’s strappy with light fabric covered in jewel-toned vertical stripes that felt very of-the-moment. But her favorite part -- the triangle cut-out at the small of her back -- is betraying her right now, because she can’t get the two halves of the zipper to connect.

She tilts her head back and groans quietly.

“Everything okay in there?”

Okay, maybe not so quietly.

She turns to answer him but, though the bathroom door is open, he’s nowhere to be found. His voice sounded close and she images him standing just outside, not wanting to peer in.

“No.” She pouts. “Will you help me?”

“Uhh… sure.”

“That will require you to come in here.”

“Oh, haha.”

He steps into the bathroom, ducking his head like he might not quite fit. Claire starts to regret this idea after he takes one more step and they’re basically toe-to-toe in the small space. Damn Europe and its small bathrooms. But it’s too late to go back now, so she plows ahead.

“I, um,” she starts, working her jaw and glancing up at him. “I can’t get the zipper. Do you mind?”

Brad shrugs one shoulder. “Sure.”

“I just, it’s a weird angle. I swear it wasn’t a problem in the dressing room but-”

“Claire.”

“Yeah?”

“You gotta turn around.”

“Haha. Oh, right.”

She turns away from him and reaches up to pull her hair over one shoulder so it won’t be in his way. It’s around this point when it hits her that the back of her dress is totally open from the waist up and that, at this very moment, Brad has a great view of the whole of her back and the pale band of her lacy strapless bra.

Just as the room seems to get about ten degrees warmer Brad’s fingers are ghosting her spine.

“Ooh yeah, I can see why this was so tricky for you Claire,” he says, a little too loudly.

Whatever he’s doing it’s tugging at the sides of the dress, and if she was brave enough to look in the mirror Claire knows she’d see Brad pulling the two ends of the zipper toward him to get a better look. She can feel the fabric pull away from her sides just as one of the dress’ thin straps slips off her left shoulder, so she crosses her arms over her ribs to keep the top from falling down entirely.

The mere thought makes the moderate blush that had started on her chest intensify, and she can feel it creeping up her throat. As if that’s not enough, Brad’s knuckles are on back her skin, pressing into her as he tries to get the ends to latch.

“Come on you son of a...” He huffs out a breath of frustration, which Claire feels on the back of her neck. “Ah, there we go.”

He holds the bottom of the zipper taut at against her lower back and slowly drags the slider upwards. The teeth keep getting caught, so he unzips it almost entirely and steps in closer to get a better angle.

“Hang on,” he says. “Almost got it.”

Claire can tell that he’s concentrating hard, which is good because “mmhm” is all she can manage in reply. No room has ever felt so small in her whole life. He’s practically right on top of her. One of his knees is pressing into the back of her thigh and the little grunts of effort he’s letting out are puffing against the shell of her ear. Claire swallows so thickly she’d be shocked if he couldn’t hear it.

But the new angle has worked, because soon Brad’s dragging his fingers up her spine as he slides the zipper the rest of the way in one smooth motion.

“Nice nice,” he says.

Claire opens her eyes (since when had she closed them?) and is about to thank him when she feels his touch again, but this time on her arm. She turns and catches a glimpse of them in the mirror. The first thing she notices is how close they’re still standing. He’s practically looming over her. All she’d have to do is stand a little straighter and she’d be leaning back against his chest.

The second is how soft his face gets as he looks down at her and uses two fingers to slide the strap of her dress back onto her shoulder.

“Uh, there you go.” He clears his throat and takes a step back. “All set.”

“Great, um, thank you.” She moves to the sink and starts fiddling with her makeup bottles to distract herself more than anything. She glances at him in the mirror and he has this slack-jawed look on his face that she really doesn’t know what to do with, so she starts putting on a second layer of mascara.

“You got it.” He’s bouncing on his toes now, back to his old self. “So when are you gonna be ready, do ya think?”

“Hey, don’t rush me!” She laughs and points the mascara wand at his reflection. “I told you to come up here at nine -- not my fault you were forty-five minutes early.”

“Fiiine.” He huffs and trudges out of the bathroom, dragging his feet. “Do you have, like, a diary I can read?”

“Brad!” She turns to gape at him and he’s looking at her over his shoulder with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“God you’re so easy, Claire.”

***

Because of Brad’s impatience, and since Claire was basically ready anyway, they head out of the hotel with more than an hour to kill before it’s time to meet up with Marco. They use it as a chance to explore some of the city -- something Claire has barely gotten to do since she arrived.

They stroll through Plaza Mayor, the city’s main square, and check out the tourist trap restaurants lining the perimeter.

“Okay, we have to find something more authentic,” Brad says.

“Uh-huh. Big time.”

“Oh! I have an idea.”

“Wha-”

Before Claire can even ask, Brad’s caught her by the wrist and is leading her to the center of the plaza until they’re standing beneath the statue of a king on horseback.

Claire looks around at the keyhole entrances leading in and out of the square. “Wait, which one did we even come in through?”

“I don’t know,” Brad says gleefully. “It doesn’t matter. Okay Claire listen -- close your eyes.”

“What? No.”

“Just do it.”

“Honestly, Brad.” She holds up her hand as if to ward him and his crazy ideas off, but he pouts and she sighs, relenting. She closes her eyes.

“There you go, Claire! Now hold out your arm -- no like this, pointing. Yeah. Now turn in a circle until you feel like stopping.”

“Seriously, what is the point of-”

“And, go!”

“Oh my god, I can’t.” But she starts spinning, slowly and carefully on the cobblestones. After what she thinks is a few rotations she stops. “Okay?”

“Perfect, Claire!” He claps his hands together. “Open your eyes.”

She does and finds she’s more or less pointing toward an exit from the square in the northeast corner.

“So... we go that way?”

Brad nods. “We go that way.”

***

They wind up at a little restaurant on a quiet cobblestoned street that has a small cluster of outdoor tables on the sidewalk. Most of the tables are full, nearly everyone is speaking Spanish, and none of the menus are laminated in plastic -- all good signs.

The waiter seats them at a table in the corner, beneath a string of paper lanterns, and Claire has a good feeling about this place.

“I have a good feeling about this place,” she says, because she tells Brad everything she thinks now, apparently. (Well, not _everything_.)

“Oh yeah? I do too. Beautiful night in Spain, little hole-in-the-wall local joint…”

“Yeah what’s bad about that?”

“Exactly.”

***

Brad orders a local beer, or “cerveza” as he likes to say, over and over (“_cerveza_, Claire”) and Claire takes a leap of faith and orders a glass of sangria. It’s not her favorite at home, where it’s almost always cloyingly sweet and artificial. But when it arrives at the table and she takes a sip she’s so glad she risked it, because it’s seasonal and herbaceous and fresh.

The sun has gone down but it’s still kinda hot out, and Claire’s debating whether she should see if Brad’s okay with taking refuge at a table inside when something clicks on above them. They both look up to find that the trellis the lanterns have been strung on also houses a misting system, and a soft spray of cool water falls onto their upturned faces.

Claire’s vaguely concerned about the damage water can do to freshly applied makeup, but it feels too good to do anything but close her eyes and tilt her head back further. All too soon the mister turns off and Brad laughs when she pouts.

“We'll have to get you one of those fans people have here,” he says. There are flecks of water on his cheeks and on the tips of his eyelashes and Claire can’t keep the smile off her face.

“Uh-huh. Will you follow me around with it all day?”

He tilts his head, considering. “Hey, if that’s what the talent wants.”

***

If she’s honest, Claire is ever so slightly buzzed by the time they arrive at the first bar of the pub crawl. She only meant to get one drink earlier but the waiter brought over table olives and all it took was one question about how Brad’s visit to the tapenade place went for him to launch into story after story that quickly had her in stitches.

So when Brad ordered another drink she did too, and if Marco hadn’t texted her she might’ve lost track of time altogether.

Claire’s first impression of the bar is that it’s loud. Her second and third impressions also relate to the loudness and her fourth is that it’s crowded, but the music is pretty good and at least there’s AC in here.

When they first walk in they stand there blinking into the darkness for a few moments before they see Marco by the bar in the back corner, waving them over. Brad’s stature really comes in handy as they weave their way across the dance floor to the back. Claire follows in his wake until they reach the center of the floor and she gets caught up in what appears to be a group of drunk American college kids.

She’s about to start elbowing her way free when Brad reaches over them and reels her in by her hand. Once she’s back by his side he places his palm on the small of her back, fingers just barely curling around her hip, and guides her the rest of the way.

And if Claire misses his touch when he drops his hand once they reach the bar, it’s only because she’s tipsy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more bar crawl; free shots; claire decides to stop thinking so much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! sorry for the delay -- I was traveling, but now I'm back and extra inspired to write about these dummies. 
> 
> as always, thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapt. looking forward to hearing what you think of this one! 
> 
> p.s. - can anyone tell which movie this was lowkey inspired by?

When Claire was in college she thought all vodka tasted the same. It was just liquid poison that you gulped down as a means to an end, so who cared which brand made it? But somewhere along the line Claire started ordering Tito’s and sodas because that’s what all her cheffy friends were doing, and she had no idea how much better it was than the $13 handles her classmates used to buy until she took one of the free shots provided as part of the bar crawl.

She’s practically gagging against the back of her hand, but after taking his shot Brad just throws his head back and lets out a “wooooo-ey!” before slamming the glass down on the bar. Of course even drinking actual swill doesn’t diminish his zest for life.

“I’m buying the next round,” she tells him.

Brad leans down and cocks his head toward her. “What?”

Claire stands on her toes to bring her mouth closer to his ear. “I’m buying the next round!”

Though maybe she shouldn’t have another round, because she’s off balance before she can even get the sentence out. She grabs onto Brad’s arm to steady herself, and he supports with a hand on her elbow.

“Woah woah.” He grips her other elbow as he leans to the side to look down at her shoes. Whatever he sees, he doesn’t like. “This is why you shouldn’t be wearing stilts, Claire.”

“What??” She glances down to double check that she’s still wearing the same sandalls she put on earlier. “These are, like, three inch wedges.”

Brad tuts, apparently not having trouble hearing her anymore. Probably because they’re standing so close now, and literally holding onto each other. Claire doesn’t want to let go, so she doesn’t, and this is when she realizes she is drunk.

“Doesn’t matter,” Brad’s saying. “You’ll never get your sea legs wearing those.”

It’s her turn to reply but the best she can do is roll her eyes, because she’s suddenly highly attuned the feel of his hands on her forearms. She’s always been kinda a sucker for his hands, teasing him about how they’re good for dough, how large they are compared to hers. And they are large -- practically spanning from her wrists to her elbows -- but they’re gentle too, which is helpful with the handling of dough, but also, apparently, for zipping up dresses and sliding tiny straps back onto bare shoulders and…

“Claire?” Brad drops one of said hands from her arm to wave it in front of her face. “You alright? Earth to Claire.”

“Oh hey, sorry.” Claire lets go of his bicep and steps back. “I, um, was just thinking about how gross that shot was.” She shivers for effect.

“Hah, yeah. But hey -- when in Rome, right?”

Even in her current state, Claire sputters at the inaccuracies in that statement. “But we’re in… And I don’t think that really applies--”

“When in Rome, Claire!” Brad shrugs, like it’s not up to him -- that’s just how it is, and turns to the bar to order another round.

“Just vodka soda for me this time,” she calls over his shoulder. “And not the cheap kind!”

***

Marco’s kinda awesome. He’s been so attentive to Claire during the workday, and even now that he’s off the clock he seems determined to make sure she has a good time. He and his friends know the bartenders at the second stop on the crawl and they set them up with a booth and drinks on the house.

It’s getting late -- well past midnight -- and this place definitely has a clubbier vibe than the last. There’s a DJ and black lights and people wearing glow sticks. After a round of test tube shots (yeah, that kind of place) the beginning notes of Despacito play through the speakers, and judging by the crowd’s reaction they’re not sick of it either.

Because Claire’s certainly not. She’s bouncing in her seat and singing along in her shoddy Spanish. Brad’s laughing at her but she doesn’t care, and even though the singer is from Puerto Rico she shouts, “When in Rome, right?” and heads out to the dance floor.

When she turns back it’s Marco who’s right behind her. It’s not who she was hoping would follow her, but she really wants to dance, so she takes his hand.

***

Marco’s kinda a good dancer. No, like a _great_ dancer. The kind of dancer that makes just-okay dancers (like Claire, if she’s honest) seem better than they actually are.

It doesn’t hurt that the DJ knows what she’s doing, seamlessly mixing banger after banger, paying songs in Spanish and English, hits and lesser known tracks with killer beats.

It also doesn’t hurt that Brad is watching.

She and Marco haven’t strayed too far from the booth, and Claire can see that, while Brad is drinking and talking to Marco’s friends, he keeps glancing over at her. Just being protective, probably. Wants to make sure she doesn’t get lost in this crowded bar in a foreign country. It makes sense.

Still, when Marco circles behind her Claire raises her arms above her head, swaying her hips to the music, and looks at Brad until he inevitably meets her eyes. She’s grateful for all the liquid courage in her system because otherwise she’s sure she’d look away.

But she doesn’t, and neither does he. He watches her with a look that’s in the neighborhood of awe, and Claire’s pretty sure her face is glistening with sweat and she can feel her hair sticking to the back of her neck but in some ways she’s never felt so sexy.

Then she feels Marco’s hands on her waist, and just before he spins her around to face him she sees Brad’s jaw tense.

***

“I brought you something!” Claire announces as she slides back into the booth next to Brad. His face lights up, like it’s Christmas morning come early, and she breathes a quiet sigh of relief. She can’t put her finger on why, but she was worried he’d be mad.

“Ohhhhh.” He rubs his hands together. “Is it Spanish cherry chapstick?”

“Nope!” She moves her hand from behind her back and holds it out to him. “A glow necklace!”

“A cherry glow necklace!”

“Well....” It’s red, so she’ll give it to him. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

He tries to put it on himself but his hands, for all their good qualities, are too big to finesse the plastic connector into place. But rather than ask for help, like a normal human, he keeps applying force like he can muscle it into place.

“Okay, stop stop,” Claire says, batting his hands away. “Let me do it.”

He hands it over, pouting a little, and it doesn’t take long to realize the angle won’t work. Claire kneels on the vinyl-covered seat and inches forward until her knees bump against the side of his thigh. She’s a little taller than him this way, and she’s tempted to comment on it -- like that time he did during sourdough-nuts -- but he turns toward her and tilts his chin up, ready to be adorned, and he just looks too pure.

So she stays quiet and reaches around him to fasten the glow stick at the nape of his neck. It’s a tricky one (or, more likely, he messed up the tube by trying to jam it) and only when she’s managed it does she realize her cleavage has been pretty close to his face the whole time.

“Oops, sorry,” she says, sitting back on her heels and wondering why she just acknowledged that, because Brad looks panic-stricken. “Um, all done!”

“Oh nice.” He clears his throat, then touches the plastic around his neck. “How do I look?”

Claire squints and tilts her head. “A little red,” she says. “But the necklace looks good.”

Brad’s mouth falls open and Claire’s literally cackling, both because it was a funny line and because she can’t believe she just said that. Brad’s saved from having to reply because the rest of their little gang starts cheering at Marco’s return (he wasn’t here?) with another round of drinks.

Marco slides in next to Claire, who sits down properly to make room. She’s right up against Brad now, and Marco looks between them as he hands her her drink.

“And for the señorita, a Belvedere and soda with three limes,” he says, smiling.

“Perfect. Thanks, Marco.”

“Yeah, thanks bud.”

Brad leans forward to grab his drink from the center of the table and when he sits back, his arm falls around Claire’s shoulders. The gesture isn’t lost on Marco, but to his credit his smile doesn’t falter.

“No problem,” he says, before joining in on a heated debate his friends are having in Spanish across the table.

Claire wonders if Brad will move, having made whatever point he was trying to make, but his arm stays put. It’s another one of those moments that feels like it should feel weird, but Claire’s drunk and tired and Brad clearly doesn’t feel weird about it, so why should she?

So she sips her drink through the straw and leans into his side.

“Why didn’t you come and dance?” she asks after a minute. She’s looking down at her drink, but she can feel him shrug.

“Ehh I’m not much of a dancer, Claire. Plus didn’t feel like being a third wheel.”

“Oh not this again,” she says. “It wasn’t like that.”

“I didn’t know what it was like.”

He sounds fairly serious, so Claire shifts to look up at him. “Brad, come on. He’s just a guy from work.”

Brad huffs at that and takes a long pull of his drink.

“You know what I mean,” Claire says. They’re getting into dangerous territory now, on the verge of putting a finger on something that has never been acknowledged, at least not by them. But it _isn’t_ what she meant, and she can’t have him thinking he’s ‘just a guy from work’ to her. “It’s just-- It’s not like that, with him. Okay?”

He finishes his drink and places the glass back on the table. When he finally looks down at her he’s more still than she’s ever seen him. He’s searching her face for something, but Claire can’t dwell on that because they’re so close, and she’s wetting her lips, and she swears his gaze drops to her mouth for a split second before meeting her eyes.

“Okay,” he says.

***

Marco’s friends know the staff at the next bar too, but the whole vibe is different. The welcome isn’t as warm as the last place and they don’t get free drinks, which is just fine with Claire, who has decided to switch to water.

She’s also decided to stop thinking so much, at least for tonight. She decided this when, halfway through the walk to stop number three, she realized her arm had been through Brad’s the whole time. But tonight was a fluke, she decided, a one-off, it didn’t count. So she left her arm where it was, and if she rested her cheek on his bicep when they were waiting for walk signals, that didn’t count either.

Now that they’re inside, she lets him go so she can try to get the bartender’s attention and get a glass of water before something else is thrust into her hand. She’s practically leaning over the bar when she hears shouting from behind her.

Before she can turn around to see what’s going on Brad’s at her side, hand on her waist, telling her they have to move. She looks over her shoulder to see one of Marco’s friends practically toe to toe with a bouncer, shouting angrily in Spanish.

“_Claire_,” Brad says, tugging at her waist. “We should go.”

“Yeah, okay.”

But before she can take a step another one of Marco’s friends takes a glass from a nearby table and smashes it on the floor at the bouncer’s feet. Then all hell breaks loose. People are rushing toward the action, away from the action, pushing and pulling in all directions. Someone shoves Claire to the right, and she’d have gone flying if Brad wasn’t there to catch her.

He pulls her up and takes her hand firmly in his. “Hold on to me!”

Claire can only nod because she’s thoroughly freaked out by the chaos going on around them. She grips Brad’s hand and holds onto the back of his shirt as he makes a path for them through the crowd. Finally they reach the door, and even when they’re safely outside they run to the end of the block, hand-in-hand.

They both double over, half panting, half laughing.

“What the _fuck_?” Brad says.

“Literally, what the fuck?” Claire has a hand on her chest like she’s having a heart attack, but she’s laughing so hard her eyes are tearing up. “Like who does that?”

“I don’t know!”

They probably look like idiots, crying-laughing under a streetlight on the cobblestone sidewalk, but Claire’s far too wired to care. Her heart is racing and her eyes are wide and she’s with her favorite person and… oh fuck.

Brad’s smiling down at her, red glow stick still around his neck, and she wants to kiss him.

_Fuck_.

“Boy, we’re really screwed now, Claire.”

She blinks. “Sorry?”

“All that adrenaline from running for our lives? We’ll, like, never sleep tonight.”

“Oh yeah.” Claire takes a step back. “Shit.”

“So…..” Brad says. “What should we do now?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madrid at night; Spanish grocery shopping; & a hotel room picnic!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so some of you were not fans of that last cliff-hanger lol but this one should make up for it!!
> 
> looking forward to all of your thoughts :D :D

The street meat in New York is top-notch. Even Claire, who is decidedly not a street-meat person, can attest to that. She’s been known to stop at a food cart from time to time, and she swears the kabobs and chicken and rice would taste amazing even if she didn’t eat them 2 a.m.

And, of course, Brad has a favorite hot dog stand, which he frequents bi-weekly, citing the importance of supporting local businesses if anyone gets judgy.

So Brad and Claire know street meat. But tonight they discover street meat has _nothing_ on street churros.

Brad’s the one who spotted the cart on Calle de Postas, and the enthusiasm he showed for a food that’s patently un-savory made Claire realize that she’s not the only one who’s feeling the effects of all the liquor they consumed tonight, which is something of a relief.

Not long later they were sitting on the edge of a fountain, sharing a “bouquet” (Brad’s word) of warm, cripsy, gooey churros. They both moaned when they took their first bites, and any other time Claire would be embarrassed at the sound she just made but, right now, she’s too into it to care.

“These are _so_ good,” she tells Brad, in case he was unaware.

“Sooo good,” he echoes. “Like, they have no right to be this good.”

“Seriously!”

“Have you ever made these before?”

“Oh yeah.” Claire licks traces of sugar and cinnamon from her fingers and reaches for another churro in the paper bag Brad’s holding. “Not ones this good, though.”

“Ehh I dunno about that.”

“What?”

“I bet you could make ‘em this good.”

“Ha,” Claire says, shaking her head. “You know, I think your unwavering confidence in me is misplaced sometimes.”

“No, Claire.” Brad tilts his head as he looks at her, wiping the side of his mouth with his thumb. “It’s not.”

She smiles at him before training her eyes on the ground, hopefully hiding her reddening cheeks behind a curtain of hair. His enthusiastic support of her abilities in the kitchen always makes her feel all warm and fuzzy, but tonight, with him looking at her like that, it hits her square in the chest.

“Thanks, Brad.”

“I mean it,” he says. “Hey, think we can find any steak to put between two of these? That would be so frickin’ good.”

***

They’re rinsing their fingers in the fountain (“This is so gross, Brad.” “Please, Claire, lighten up, it’s fine.”) when Marco texts asking where they’ve gone.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Brad says, laughing. “Those guys know how to party, I’ll give ‘em that.”

Claire taps out a reply on her phone. “I let him know we’re calling it a night.”

“Oh.”

“Is that okay? Or did you want to go back to break more glasses with them?”

“Ha ha.” Brad rolls his eyes. “No I just meant, are we?”

Claire blinks. “Are we what?”

“Calling it a night.”

“Oh. Um, I don’t know.”

“Are you tired?”

Claire thinks for a second then shakes her head. “Nope. Not even close.”

***

They end up meandering their way back in the direction of their hotel. At least, Claire thinks they’re heading that way. It’s hard to tell on these medieval streets that were designed to confuse foreign invaders and, incidentally, twenty-first century tourists.

While Claire maintains her wedges are fairly sensible footwear for a night out, they aren’t the best for traversing cobblestones, and after the third time she almosts twisted her ankle Brad insisted she hold on to his arm (and she wasn’t gonna argue with that).

The temperature has dropped a few degrees, to Claire’s delight, and every so often a warm breeze flutters the hem of her dress. She’s pleasantly tipsy now, and as she walks down the street, wrist looped through the crook of Brad’s elbow, she realizes she’s happier now than she was at any of the bars.

“Left here,” Brad says.

Claire goes with it for a few paces before she tugs him to a stop. “Hang on, hang on -- do you have any idea where you’re going?”

He grins down at her. “Not a clue.”

“Brad!” She swats at his chest with her free hand. “What if we get lost?”

He shakes his head at her, like she’s being ridiculous. “I mean, how lost can we get?”

He keeps walking and Claire follows along, but she’s gaping at him with an indignant look she usually reserves for Dan.

“_Lost_,” she tells him. “Like, really lost!”

Brad stops so abruptly that Claire starts to stumble forward. He catches her with his strong hands, turns her so they’re facing each other, and grips her shoulders.

“Claire,” he says slowly, like he’s reasoning with a little kid. “It’s beautiful out. We’re wide awake. We’re in Madrid -- _Madrid_, Claire! It’s-- Wait, why are you laughing?”

“Sorry, sorry.” She tries to smother her giggle behind her hand. “It just hit me that this is your version of telling me ‘YOLO.’”

Brad wrinkles his nose. “I would never say YOLO.”

“I know, I know, but the sentiment you're expressing is YOLO-esque.”

He sighs. “I’m just trying to say, like, you gotta live in the moment. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” Claire grins at him, biting the edge of her lip. “You only live once.”

“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!”

“Also known as YOLO.”

“Oh my god.” Brad groans and throws his hands up as Claire erupts into a peel of laughter. “Jesus, Claire. You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She grabs onto his elbow and starts pulling him onward. “Come on, left it is.”

***

Left, ultimately, was a good choice, because it leads them to a twenty-four hour grocery store. Brad grabs a basket and they go down each aisle, selecting anything that strikes their fancy. The cashier gives them a strange look as he rings up their random purchases: a baguette, soft cheese, pickled green beans, jamon chips, fig preserves, spicy olives, a six pack of beer, and a massive Toblerone (Brad’s).

After they leave and walk another block Claire realizes they’re not far from their hotel, and they decide to head back. But the relief that Claire briefly felt at not actually being lost in a strange city fades with each step they take. She’s not ready for tonight to end just yet.

They’re both quiet as the hotel comes into view. She’s bordering on sober now, which is unfortunate because that means her brain is firing on all cylinders, and she can’t block out how she felt on the street corner, after they ran from the bar fight.

In the yellow light of the hotel lobby, she has to admit to herself that her crush is really and truly back. But it feels different this time.

(She’s not gonna think about that.)

***

“Uh, Claire? I don’t think we thought this through.”

“Huh?”

“All of this.” Brad lifts the two grocery bags in his hands. “I don’t think my mini-bar fridge will hold it.”

“Oh right.” Claire laughs and rubs her forehead. “Crap.”

The elevator dings as the doors open and they both step in. Claire goes to punch the number of her floor when Brad says, “No no no, hit seven.”

She hits the button and raises her eyebrows at him. “Your floor?”

“Yep. I’ve got a plan. Just thought of it.”

“Oh yeah?” Claire presses her lips together to keep her smile in check. “What’s that?”

Brad grins, clearly proud of himself. “Hotel. Room. Picnic.”

***

Their late night Spanish Supermarket Sweep winds up making for a pretty decent spread. Brad’s room is smaller than Claire’s, but his bed is just as large so they throw a towel across the duvet as a sort of table cloth and assemble their snacks. Brad has to tear the bread into smaller pieces with his hands, but he saved some plasticware from yesterday’s lunch so they’re able to spread the cheese and preserves onto the bread hunks with a small, flimsy knife.

They crack open a couple cans of beer -- a local brand Brad recognized -- and sit on the mattress. Brad throws himself back against the pillows, happy as a clam, but Claire balances on the corner of the bed, turning away to subtly take a few long gulps.

She really didn’t think this through.

“Mmm,” she says, turning back to him. “It’s good.”

“I know, right? Love this stuff.” He takes another sip and pats the pillows next to him. “Come on, Saffitz. Get comfy. There’s this great movie channel I found last night, you’ll love it.”

Claire stands and places her beer on the nightstand on her side of the bed, trying to figure out what to do. Because there’s nothing she wants more than to crawl into bed with him, even for platonic snack-eating and movie-watching session. And that scares her. Especially since she’s pretty sure he doesn't feel the same way.

She’s not against taking a calculated risk when it makes sense, but in no universe is this a good idea.

Brad looks over at her, probably wondering why she hasn’t said anything, then nods subtly to himself.

“It’s a big bed, Claire. Think of it as a looong couch.”

She laughs nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “No no, it’s not that. I just, um, should change out of this dress.”

She’s proud of herself for coming up with that on the spot and is ready to put her sandals back on and escape back to her room, but then Brad holds up a finger and jumps out of bed. He opens the closet and starts rifling through a pile of clothes in a duffle bag.

“Brad, what are--”

“Ah, here we go!” He turns and holds up a faded blue t-shirt she’s seen him wear a hundred times. “It’s clean, promise.”

“That’s… you want me to...”

“So you can change out of your dress, yeah? Hang on, I think I have some shorts here somewhere…”

“No no, this is fine,” Claire says, taking the shirt from him and walking toward the bathroom. It’s one thing to wear his t-shirt, but the thought of him pulling out boxers for her to wear was too much. “Thanks.”

“Oh… you sure?” he asks, but she’s already pulling the bathroom door closed behind her.

***

When Brad wears this shirt it’s pretty snug across his chest (one of the reasons Claire likes it) but on her, it’s blessedly loose. It’s long on her too, falling just at her knees, which is a relief because she really didn’t have a plan C if it was anything less than a nightgown on her.

After checking herself in the bathroom mirror, she smooths her hair, folds her dress, takes a deep breath, and walks back into the room. She really must’ve taken her time changing, because Brad got changed too, now wearing gray joggers and a white tee. He’s taken off his hat and his hair is ruffled and curling at his neck.

He’s lounging against the pillows again, but he’s practically all the way to the edge this time, presumably to give her more room.

“Wow,” he says, as Claire places her dress on top of her sandals. “That shirt is huuuge on you.”

“Hah, yeah well I’m not like seventeen feet tall.”

“It’s like we’re a different species. Man, really feel like I’m an ogre or something.”

“Please. You’re fine,” she says. It comes out more sharply than she means it to and Brad looks kinda surprised. Hurt, even. Shit.

“Sorry, I’m just… you know....” She tentatively climbs onto the other side of the bed, searching for something -- anything -- to say.

“Sleep deprived?” Brad offers.

Claire smiles at him gratefully as she settles back against the pillows. “Yes. That.”

***

The movie channel Brad loves so much only plays old black-and-white Spanish films. Like, in Spanish. With no subtitles.

“Amazing, right?” Brad says, tossing a few chips into his mouth.

Claire glances at the screen again before looking back at him, wondering what she’s missing.

“Can you… understand them?”

“No! That’s the best part. You watch and then you make up what you think is happening as you go.”

Claire crosses her arms. “Uh-huh…”

“Like, ohhhhh okay -- see that lady in the frilly dress? She keeps glaring at the guy with the mustache, so I’m thinking he’s her ex who two-timed her, and now she’s pissed.”

“Hmm.” Claire takes a sip of her second beer (which has really been helpful for the situation she finds herself in). “Alright lemme try. ‘Kay, now they’re on a train… oh! Maybe he got her lost because he was all like, ‘let’s live in the moment,’ and now they’re so far from home they can’t even walk back. They have to take a train!”

Brad scowls as she giggles to herself. “Oh you’re a regular ole comedian now, aren’t you?”

She bats her eyelashes at him. “I’m just playing along,” she says innocently.

“Suuure you are, Claire.” He scratches at his chin. “But, if you think about it, if I didn’t get us,” he holds up his fingers in exaggerated air-quotes, “lost then we wouldn’t be having this wonderful ‘lil picnic right now, would we?”

Claire chuckles to herself and finishes the dregs of her beer. “Well, I can’t argue with that.”

***

After the movie ends the TV channel just turns to static. She didn’t even know channels did that anymore.

“Welp, that’s when you know it’s late,” Brad says. He mutes the TV and rolls onto his side.

They cleared the make-shift picnic away about an hour ago, having finished the chips and most of the bread and cheese and all of the beer. And while they’d started out with a few feet between them, practically balancing on the sides of the bed, they slowly moved closer together as they shifted to get comfortable, and now they’re within arms-reach.

(Not that anyone is reaching. Or thinking about reaching. Nope.)

“Hah, right?” Claire slouches further against the pillows, almost fully lying down. “You tired at all Brad?”

“Nah. You?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

She actually is starting to feel sleepy. If she were upstairs, alone in her room, this fact would thrill her to no end, because she really needs to sleep in order to function tomorrow, and she has another full day. But she finds herself fighting sleep because that would mean this night that doesn’t count (which, after three beers, is how she’s gone back to thinking of it) would come to an end. And she’s not ready for that.

“What do you normally do when you can’t sleep?” she asks him.

He shrugs. “Go on my phone.”

“Brad! That’s like the worst thing you can do.”

“Why?”

“The blue light!”

“Pffft I don’t believe that nonsense, blue light, white light, red light -- what’s the difference?”

“Oh my god. If is gonna turn into another rant about the illuminati I’m out of here.”

She sits up like she’s going to leave and Brad reaches out to grab her wrist, holding her in place as she laughs and half-heartedly wriggles to get free.

“Hey! You’re not going anywhere,” he says, but he’s laughing too.

“What, am I your prisoner now?” She stops struggling and turns onto her side to face him. “Is this, like, your move -- lure a girl in with food and then don’t let her escape?”

“No, it’s not my _move_ Claire.” Brad squints at her, loosens his hand on her wrist. “I don’t have _moves_.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t!”

“Okay.”

“And even if I did, I wouldn’t have to _lure_ anyone or _trap_ them or--”

“Okay okay!” She turns her arm that’s under his hand and touches the inside of his wrist to get his attention. “I was just teasing you. I know you wouldn’t trap anyone, Brad.”

He sighs and closes his eyes. “I really need to sleep.”

“I know.”

She squeezes his wrist and smiles at him. After a few seconds, he squeezes hers back. All she’d have to do is pull her arm back a few inches and they’d be holding hands, like when they ran from the bar. Hasn’t Brad been telling her to live in the moment all night? Her heart starts hammering as she actually considers it. It would be so easy…

Then, against her will, she lets out a long yawn.

Brad opens his eyes, smiling at her. “Oh there you go Claire!”

She pushes down her disappointment and smiles back. Of course her body would betray her like this.

“Hah yeah wow. I mean, the sun is gonna come up soon so of course my mind thinks this is a good time to get sleepy.”

“We’re just true New Yorkers, forever on Eastern Time.”

“Yeah guess so.”

“Think you could fall asleep?”

He’s looking at her with such care, like he really wants this for her -- for her to feel better -- that she can’t lie anymore.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I could fall asleep right now actually. Hopefully the damn elevator ride doesn’t wake me up.”

She shifts to get out of the bed, but Brad’s hand tightens on her arm again. It’s a gentle touch -- not enough to hold her in place, but enough for her to stop and look over at him.

“Just sleep, Claire,” he says softly. “Close your eyes.”

She’s distantly aware of the fact that she should think this is a truly horrible idea, but the room is warm and the lights are low and Brad’s touch is comforting, anchoring her, quieting her mind. So she settles back against the pillow and tucks her knees up toward her chest.

“Night, Brad,” she whispers.

She’s pleased to see that his eyes look heavy, too. He smiles at her sleepily.

“Night, Claire.”

Just before Claire finally drifts off she feels Brad move his arm so that his palm is resting over hers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brad & claire wake up. together. in the same bed. etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a minute, but I've got a nice, long chapter for ya. let me know your fav parts, yell at me, yell ab brad/claire, etc!

Claire’s always been a stomach sleeper. It’s not great for the spine, as her chiropractor often reminds her, but she figures at this point in life there’s no helping it. She can sleep on her side if she’s tired enough, but no matter how exhausted she is she just can’t sleep on her back.

Sometimes she even wakes up if she rolls onto her back during the night, which, as her mind is slowly dragged into consciousness, is what’s happening now. Claire fights it off as best she can, willing herself to cling to precious sleep.

She tries to melt into the details: it’s warm and soft and dark; there’s steady, soothing breathing coming from somewhere to her left; and there’s a comforting weight slung across her stomach, resting just under her ribs. She’s already rolling onto her left side -- closer to the weight and warmth -- when she remembers where she is… and whose throat she’s currently nuzzling against.

But sleep is already seeping back in at the corners and Brad’s arm adjusts to accommodate her new position, curling around her back and pulling her in even closer. He smacks his lips together and continues breathing heavily, so she knows she hasn’t woken him. As Claire burrows her nose into the fabric of his t-shirt, she’s distantly aware of how safe she feels in his arms -- how they just seem to fit together, like this.

And, really, there’s nothing for Claire to do but take the path of least resistance and drift blissfully back to sleep.

***

The next time Claire wakes up she can tell it’s light out before she even opens her eyes. The alarm on her phone hasn’t gone off yet, but she knows it can’t be long before it begins to chime. Brad has a few more things to shoot at the cava vineyard and since she “always boosts the view count” (something she’ll never, ever understand) she’s been tapped to go along.

She’s been looking forward to it, actually, but that doesn’t make waking up any easier. She’s about to groan when she becomes aware of another important fact that overrides all other thoughts.

She must’ve shifted in her sleep again, because she’s on her right side now. And there’s a body pressed up behind her. Brad’s body. Like, all of it.

Her heart starts thudding in her chest, so she takes a deep breath to calm down. She’s afraid to open her eyes just yet, so she evaluates the situation with her other senses. Based on his breathing she can tell he’s still asleep. He’s practically wrapped around her from behind, the big spoon to her little. His knees are angled so that they slot in right behind hers and his chest is firm against her back.

He has an arm wrapped around her middle, palm flat against her hip and belly. It’s not until Claire shifts against the mattress, sleepily reveling in the sensation of being held by him, that she realizes her shirt (_his_ shirt) must’ve ridden up in her sleep, because the fabric is bunched against her ribcage and his hand is on her bare skin.

The effect this piece of knowledge has on her is instant. She can practically feel her body temperature rising, can imagine the red flush creeping up her chest to her neck. Brad’s always affected her physically -- just being around him in the kitchen is enough to boost her mood, make her smile a little quicker, bring some pinkless to her pale cheeks. And while they’ve toed with the boundaries of friendly touches on this trip -- and sure, maybe crossed the line once or twice -- this is on another level.

She’s always wondered what it would be like -- to feel small and protected in his arms -- but as good as it feels it also seems like cheating. He’s not aware of what he’s doing. Hell, he could think she’s someone else for all she knows.

Claire’s trying to work out what to do next when Brad grunts in his sleep and rocks his hips forward. His hand drifts lower, fingers skirting the blunt edges of her hipbone through the fabric of her underwear, and she can’t help the sigh that escapes past her lips.

For someone who claimed he wasn’t a deep sleeper, Brad doesn’t show any sign of waking, despite the waves of tension Claire feels vibrating through her body. Just as she opens her eyes in the hopes that sight will help her find her way out of this situation, Brad presses his mouth against the shell of her ear and murmurs something she can’t quite make out.

It’s too much, and the decision of what to do is taken out of her hands. It’s totally involuntary -- perhaps her mind’s fail-safe, an act of self-preservation -- when she grabs the hem of her sleep shirt and pulls it back down toward her legs.

The swift movement jostles Brad’s arm, and that, finally, is enough to make him stir. He pulls his hand back and rests it on the curve of her waist. His touch is still heavy with sleep, but Claire can tell he’s waking up by the change in his breathing. She stays still and squeezes her eyes shut, waiting for the moment that he realizes who’s body he’s draped himself over.

It’s not long before Brad inhales quietly and whispers a confused “_oh_.” The mattress dips and she can envision him propped up on one elbow, looking down at how their bodies have all but fused together. Her mind is racing, wondering if she’s sufficiently covered by her shirt, wondering why he isn’t moving away. She’s about to leap out of bed, start running, and never look back when he clears his throat and rolls away from her.

Claire inhales, and it feels like the first time she’s breathed in a long while. Behind her Brad yawns loudly -- exaggeratedly -- so she figures there’s no use pretending she’s still asleep. In a move that’s probably less subtle than she hopes, she rolls onto her back while tugging her sleep shirt down past the tops of her thighs.

“Um...” she starts, right as Brad says “Well.” They both pause and glance at each other for the first time this morning, and that’s all it takes for them to burst out laughing.

The relief of it feels nice and Claire leans in, each giggle cutting through the tension that had formed and compressed in the very little space between them. And she feels better now that she can actually _see_ him. Everything is less scary as she watches him laughing in the morning light, with sleep-mussed hair and a faint pillow imprint on his cheek.

Once they finally catch their breath, he runs his hand down his face and turns to her, suddenly serious. “I’m sorry for…” he gestures vaguely in her direction “how… for what I… um…”

Claire laughs at how helpless he looks, floundering like this. It’s a rare sight (outside of a baking context, at least). “No no, Brad, it’s fine.” She doesn’t want him to feel bad, especially since, technically, she initiated the contact last night. With a gentle touch, she eases his still-hovering hand back to the bed.

He rolls onto his side and studies her face. “It is?”

“Yeah.” She smiles reassuringly. “I mean, if we have to be held accountable for the things we do in our sleep then I have a lot of explaining to do for a few incidents at summer camp.”

“_Really_?” Brad says, eyes lighting up. “Tell me more about summer camp Claire. I have to know.”

It’s when he taps the side of her wrist, trying to cajole more information out of her, that Claire realizes her hand is still resting on his. (This has _got_ to stop happening.)

“Yeah yeah, nice try.”

She takes her arm back under the guise of needing it to push herself up so she can sit against the headboard. Brad wedges both of his hands between his cheek and the pillow and watches as she combs her fingers through her tangled hair. He looks so wholesome and innocent that Claire almost wants to slide back down on the mattress and cuddle up to him again.

Luckily she doesn’t have much time to mull that impulse over, because her alarm finally goes off. Brad presses his face against the pillow and lets off a litany of curses as Claire scrambles for her phone. When she finally manages to turn it off they’re laughing again.

Holding the hem of her shirt down around her legs, Claire gets out of bed and looks for her clothes. Once she spots them, she ducks into the bathroom to make herself presentable enough to go back to her room. The zipper on her dress is still giving her problems, but she manages to get it halfway up, which is good enough for now. (Even the memory of Brad zipping her up last night is too much -- she can’t imagine having to ask him to do that again.)

After a quick glance in the mirror (her hair is truly wild and her cheeks are flushed, but she can’t deal with that right now either) she heads back into the room. Brad’s sitting up in bed, chewing on his thumb as he scrolls through his phone. He laughs at something he sees, joy lighting up his face, and Claire can’t help but smile.

“So, I should go get ready,” she says.

Brad looks up and grins, like it’s the first time he’s seen her all day. “Cool, yeah. Me too.”

She crosses the room and places his folded t-shirt on the chaise lounge by the window. “Thanks for the loaner, by the way.”

“Oh, haha, yeah. Don’t mention it.”

She collects the rest of her things, ultimately deciding to carry her shoes and go barefoot rather than potentially twisting her ankle. When she turns back to Brad to say goodbye she’s half expecting him to be lost in his phone, but his full attention is on her. He stands up and shifts from one foot to the other, like he was going to walk over to her and decided against it.

“Um, so,” she says, pushing her hair behind her ear. “Meet you in the lobby in an hour?”

Brad puts his hands in the pockets of his sweats. “Yep, Roger that. But don’t take so long to get ready this time, Saffitz -- we run a tight ship on my show.”

“Okay, first,” she starts, raising her finger in the air, “you were early last night. And second, you do not run a ‘tight ship.’”

“Um, _yeah_ we do.” He takes a step closer. “You just wouldn’t know it, because things go to hell when you’re around, Claire.”

She scoffs and puts her hand on her hip. She knows he’s baiting her -- that they’re baiting each other -- but it feels good and flirty and safe, so she takes it. “Pfft, yeah, okay. I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh yeah? Does showing up 45 minutes late ring any bells?”

“Hunzi told me the wrong call time!”

“Hey, don’t scrape-goat Hunzi.”

“Scapegoat.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Uh-huh.” Claire’s trying her best to glare at him, but she’s pretty sure she’s smiling instead. “Whatever, Brad. If we’re on such a tight schedule then I better go.”

“Yes, thank you,” he says, pressing his palms together and bowing his head. “That’s the kind of professionalism we’re looking for, Claire.”

“Oh my god, Brad.” Claire holds up her hand to shield herself from his ridiculousness. “It’s too early. I can’t.”

She’s still laughing as she walks down the hallway toward the elevator. She’s just hit the call button when she hears a door opening back in the direction she came.

“Claire!”

She presses her lips together and turns around. “Yeah, Brad?”

“Text me your coffee order. I’ll have time to run to the cafe across the street.”

“Okay,” she says. “Thank you.”

He shrugs. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t provide breakfast?”

Claire laughs, hoping he can’t see her blush from down the hall.

***

(It’s the best morning she’s had this whole trip.)

***

Claire hauls ass getting ready and makes it to the lobby five minutes ahead of schedule, purely to spite Brad. But the joke’s on her because Brad, who is already there waiting for her with a triple shot latte in hand, can’t be spited.

“Way to go Claire, makin’ it down on time!”

“Early,” she says sternly. “Five minutes early. Which is like, fifteen minutes early in Claire time.”

“Okay, okay.” Brad holds up his coffee-free hand in defeat. “Let the record show that Claire Saffitz got here early.”

He’s humoring her, but she’ll take it. “Thank you.”

“Here,” Brad says, practically shoving the latte into her hands. “I think you need this.”

***

Marco’s looking a little worse for wear when he and the film crew pull up to the hotel in a van. Claire was worried it could be awkward to spend the day with him and Brad after that weird moment last night, but it quickly becomes clear that there are no hard feelings. Brad hasn’t even put his seatbelt on before he claps Marco on the shoulder and tells him he’s glad to see him alive.

The ride out to the vineyard winds up being a nice way to ease into the day. Claire settles in and savors her latte while listening to Marco’s stories from last night (they were chased out of the bar by a guy with a crowbar, in the end). If Brad’s tired, he doesn’t let on. He spends the rest of the ride joking around with the rest of the crew, language barrier be damned.

As the van turns off the highway and onto some winding country roads, Claire sits up straighter in her seat, eager to check out the vineyard and learn more about how cava is made. She isn’t completely rested, but she’s definitely less exhausted than she has been since she landed in Spain, and that’s certainly something.

She smiles to herself as she watches Brad throw his head back and laugh at something the camera guy just said. He catches her eye in that way he does, to check in and make sure she’s in on the hilarity, and even though she has no idea what was so funny she laughs with him, because it’s hard not to.

The camera guy says something else and Brad laughs even louder, nudging Claire’s knee with the back of his hand. It’s a small touch -- something he probably isn’t aware he’s doing -- but it makes Claire’s stomach flutter.

Normally she would chastise herself; she’s a grown woman, he’s her coworker, he’s her _friend_. She’s nearly fallen for him before, and she should’ve learned from that mistake. She definitely shouldn't be laughing with him with stars in her eyes and butterflies in her stomach.

She knows all of that, but at the same time there’s nothing she can do to stop it. It feels inevitable, so for once in her life she decides to live in the moment and damn the consequences.

***

Claire had forgotten how much she enjoys filming with Brad. She hadn’t been on his show in a while, and it’s nice to sit back and let him take the lead… to the extent that she is able to, at least. She can’t help but chime in about cava’s best food pairings (tapas, anything greasy) or little pieces of trivia she’s picked up, like how wine grapes have the same pH as Sourpatch Kids.

But Brad doesn’t seem to mind. Barring her penchant for colorful sprinkles, he’s never been anything but enthusiastic about her input. Claire is assertive and outspoken and self-assured -- traits that haven’t always sat well with everyone she’s come across. But Brad has always been different. They have a lot of similarities, personality-wise -- they both like being the boss and getting their way -- but somehow, together, they work. Their traits dovetail and they make each other stronger.

Working with him -- _being_ with him -- is just easy. Maybe that’s why the day goes by so quickly. They tour the fields on the back of a tractor, walk through a maze of barrels in the cellars, and sample different types of cava in the dining room. By the time they’ve gotten all the shots they need and the cameras are turned off, Claire’s cheeks are pink from the sun (and from having a touch too much wine on not enough lunch).

Brad places a hand on her lower back, steering her over to two seats in an empty corner of the room, and Claire can actually feel her body react. The hardest part of today -- in fact, the only hard part -- was not touching him.

She always avoided seeming overly friendly with him on camera so as not to arouse suspicion (though, based on some comments on their videos, she hasn’t always been successful). But today the temptation was cranked up to eleven and time and again she had to catch herself before doing something stupid, like brushing an eyelash off his cheek or clutching his forearm when he made her laugh.

It’s like something shifted in her last night, having spent hours tangled up with him in bed. The need to touch him has bubbled up to the surface, and as she lets him guide her to the table it’s all she can do to keep herself from stepping in his path and looping her arms around his waist.

She’s a little embarrassed by how relieved she is when he pulls up a chair beside hers, rather than sit down across the table. He leans his elbows on the tabletop and angles himself toward her in a way that’s all too reminiscent of when he stands next to her in the kitchen.

“What a day, huh Claire?”

“Yeah, I know.” She giggles pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “That was really fun.”

“It _was_ fun,” he says, absentmindedly tapping out a rhythm with his fingers. He opens his mouth but then closes it, like he was going to say something and thought better of it, and Claire desperately wants to know what it was.

“What?” she asks before she can stop herself.

Brad shrugs his shoulder. “Nah. I dunno. Nothin’.”

“Oh, come on,” Claire scoffs playfully. “You can’t leave me hanging like that.”

He exhales a long breath and leans back in his chair, restlessly bouncing his knee. She smirks at him, tongue caught between her teeth, and watches as he takes off his beanie, runs his fingers through his hair, and puts the cap back on.

“I guess I was just thinking that, like, I missed this.” He slides his foot across the tiled floor and nudges her shoe with his. “Or like, us. Doing this together, I mean.”

And just like that the butterflies are back in her stomach. He looks more bashful than he should, as if he just confessed something, and it’s hard to keep from laughing from the heaviness of the moment.

Instead, Claire taps his foot right back.

“I know. Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” She reaches out and places her hand on his knee, which stops bouncing at her touch. “We always have fun.” He smiles, but it’s not the reaction she wanted, so she pushes forward. “And we’re good together.”

His smile broadens into a grin and he nods emphatically. “That we are, Saffitz.” He laughs to himself and covers her hand with his in a movement that’s so casual she wonders if he’s aware of it. “That we are.”

Claire is definitely aware of what she’s doing when she turns her palm up and loosely links her fingers with his. Her heart is practically in her throat as the motion draws his eye and he looks at their joined hands, her small fingers barely visible beneath his.

She can tell he’s looking at her now, but she can’t bring herself to meet his gaze.

“Claire…” he says, in a soft voice she’s never heard before. It’s full of longing and vulnerability, and, though she doesn’t understand, it makes her chest ache.

It’s involuntary when Claire closes her eyes, her last scrap of self-preservation kicking in. “Brad,” she whispers, squeezing his hand and hoping he can read her tone, that he understands she can’t talk about it, not right now. She can’t handle trying to explain herself, or hearing him let her down. Not after such a lovely day.

He squeezes her hand back. “Okay.”

She opens her eyes and smiles at him gratefully before steering the conversation back to safer ground. They rehash the day, laughing about their favorite parts, until Marco signals to them that it’s time to head back to the city.

It’s only when they stand to leave that they drop their hands.

***

Claire would be lying if she said she wasn’t disappointed when Marco tells Brad he can ride shotgun. But as she climbs into the back of the van, she reasons that it’s probably a good thing for them to have some space. She got dangerously close to… something… back there, and god knows her willpower would be even weaker if she was crammed in next to him in the dark backseat.

She just has to make it a couple more days. Then they’ll go home and everything will go back to normal.

(She’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, at this point.)

The setting sun casts streaks of pink and orange over the Spanish countryside, and Claire rests her head on the window and watches the fields fly by. The van is quiet -- the crew must be tired, too -- and soon Claire’s eyelids are feeling heavy.

She’s about to nod off when her phone vibrates in her lap.

**9:44 p.m.**  
gettin sleepy?

Claire glances up to see if he’s watching her, but as far as she can tell he’s still facing the dashboard.

**9:44 p.m.**  
Kinda. You?

**9:44 p.m.**  
oh im always sleepy Claire

**9:44 p.m.**  
Are you??

**9:45 p.m.**  
oh yah. I’m running on fumes half the time. just gotta keep movin

**9:45 p.m.**  
Wow. Well, I can never tell

**9:45 p.m.**  
that’s good  
I actually felt pretty rested today  
got a good nights sleep

It’s the first time either of them have referenced last night since she left his room this morning, and it makes her pulse race. As far as she can tell he’s still facing forward, neck bent as he looks at his phone. They’re so close -- she could reach out and touch his shoulder, if she wanted -- but in the darkness and quiet it seems so far. The pseudo distance emboldens her as she types out her reply.

**9:45 p.m.**  
I did too  
I mean, I definitely could’ve kept sleeping for hours...

**9:45 p.m.**  
hah, yeah. same

(Her pulse goes even faster at what that could mean.)

**9:46 p.m.**  
But I did only have that one coffee today

**9:46 p.m.**  
woah your right! How is that possible, claire??

**9:46 p.m.**  
lol I know, right? Guess I was just /that/ well rested

The three white dots show up on her screen, but then they disappear and never come back. Sighing, Claire puts her phone down and goes back to staring out the window, which is much less interesting now that they’re on the highway.

**10:08 p.m.**  
so i was thinking 

**10:08 p.m.**  
....yeah?

**10:08 p.m.**  
since we both got such a good night’s sleep last night

**10:08 p.m.**  
...uh-huh...

**10:08 p.m.**  
why don’t we do that again?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brad & claire drink, reminisce, & continue their research to determine whether they sleep better in the same bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh somehow a month has passed?? sorry!! <3
> 
> enjoy this chapt and lmk what you think! I may be slow, but your lovely feedback gives me the motivation to finish this puppy up!

When the van pulls up in front of their hotel just before eleven o’clock Claire doesn’t feel very sleepy anymore, and it’s clear that plenty of others in Madrid are on her level. It’s a weeknight, but the bars and restaurants around the hotel are full, with some patrons just now sitting down for dinner.

A few days ago she found this night culture perplexing but tonight she’s grateful for it, because it doesn’t seem like such a stretch that she wants to go somewhere before she and Brad turn in.

_Together_.

Something that she had so eagerly agreed to over text in the safety of the dark backseat and now seems like a pretty foolhardy decision. She’s not sure what the best course of action is from here, but she figures going for a drink will at least buy her some time to work that out.

Luckily Brad’s not thrown by her suggestion in the slightest.

“Great idea, Claire,” he says, scratching his jaw as he looks down the street. “Oh I know! Let’s go back to our place by the Mayor’s Plaza or whatever.”

She leads the way through the winding streets, holding his “our place” close to her chest.

***

Their place winds up being pretty packed but at this point Claire has her heart set on having more of that sangria and Brad couldn’t stop talking about the olives, so they check in with the waiter and pour over a menu until a table is ready.

They’re seated a couple tables over from where they were last time and Claire’s glad to see the water misters are still on, cooling down the diners every few minutes. Brad tells the waiter their order while Claire surreptitiously surveys what everyone else is having -- one of her favorite restaurant activities.

“Oh my god, Brad.” She reaches across the table to grab his arm, jerking her chin toward the table to her left. “Do you _see_ that burrata? And those tomatoes? I’ve literally never seen tomatoes so ripe.”

Brad tips his chair back to get a better view. “Woah they’re huuuge too. They don’t grow ‘em like that at home, that’s for damn sure.”

“Right??” She grins and, realizing she’s holding on to him yet again, puts both hands in her lap. “We’re getting that.”

“Ehh…” He tilts his head to the side and wrinkles his nose.

“What?”

“I dunno, I mean -- it’s a few basil leaves away from a caprese salad, Claire. We’re in Spain, not Italy.”

She takes a deep breath and narrows her eyes. “Brad.”

“Oh boy, here we go.”

“Would you order that dish in New York?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “At an Italian restaurant, I would.”

“But not in Spain. Which is considerably closer to Italy. And shares a rich history with Italian cuisine, actually.”

Brad grins at her and shakes his head. “Of course you know that.”

“I mean…” She raises her eyebrows as high as she can. “Duh.”

He throws his head back and laughs so loudly that the couple at the next table turn to stare. If Claire was with someone else who was causing a minor scene she might be embarrassed, but she never feels that way with Brad. He’s too genuine and cheerful for her to feel anything other than gratitude for being the one to make him laugh.

“Alright then, Harvard. Give me, like, the Cliff Notes version of this ‘rich shared history’ or whatever you called it.”

She gives him an obligatory eye roll before launching into her favorite facts, and when the waiter returns with their drinks Brad orders the burrata.

***

“Know what I was thinking about, Claire? Those press trips that we’d go on in the early days. Remember those?”

“Mm.” She nods, taking a little too long topping up their glasses with sangria from the pitcher she cajoled Brad into sharing with her. “Yeah, I remember.”

She’s impressed by how casual she sounds, especially since she’s rapidly approaching tipsiness. But with the alcohol warming her cheeks and lowering her guard, she knows to keep this one thing locked down. Because _of course_ she remembers -- she’s been haunted by the memories of those trips since her plane touched down in Spain, despite her best efforts not to let her mind go there. It’s interesting that he’s been thinking about it, too.

“We were like practically kids then, ya know?” He pops an olive in his mouth and washes it down with sangria. “We had no idea what was in store for us.”

“Yeah, crazy,” Claire says noncommittally. She swirls the drink in her glass, eyes trained on the delicate slice of lemon going around and around.

“I definitely thought the whole YouTube thing was gonna be a flash in the pan,” he continues. “Even on those early trips I was like, well this is cool -- fun times, good people -- but it won’t last. Definitely didn’t think it’d turn into some career-defining thing.”

Claire nods and takes a big gulp of her drink. She should probably think of some way to change the subject to reduce the risk of her saying something she shouldn’t, but she can’t bring herself to do it.

Brad tries to play it off like he’s not this overly sentimental guy, but she knows deep down he is. Once she picked up on it the clues were everywhere, from the thoughtful gifts he brings her when he comes back from shooting on location to all the insignificant moments from their friendship that he remembers. Still, he doesn’t often talk like this so openly and she wants to soak it up.

“I mean, look at you Claire,” he’s saying. “You’re this full-blown celebrity now.”

Her eyes find his for an instant before she looks away, blushing. “I don’t know about that.”

“Well I do, and I say you are. I’ve told you -- I see the numbers. And have you ever Googled your name, Claire? People basically worship you.”

“Wait…” She giggles and cocks an eyebrow at him. “Have _you_ Googled my name, Brad?”

“Ohhh I dunno.” He tilts his head like he’s thinking about it. “Maybe once or twice.”

Now it’s Claire’s turn to throw her head back and laugh. “Oh man, that’s too good.”

“Hey, come on.” Brad shifts in his chair and scratches the back of his neck. “I’m like trying to say something here.”

“Oh.” She takes a deep breath to get ahold of herself. “Okay okay. Please continue.”

“Long story short, I was thinking about how much has changed and how we kinda grew up together. All of us. And it just -- whew, I’m really waxing poetic now… blame the sangria -- but it made me feel proud. I mean you, especially, Claire. You’re like off in the stratosphere now.”

“Brad…”

“Hang on, I’m almost done. You know I lose my train of thought.”

“Sorry. Keep going.”

“What I’m saying is, even back when we went on those first trips, it was clear you were on another level than anyone else. You’ve just got that special something, you know? Shut up, you do. So to see how far you’ve come -- doing talk shows in Spain and shit -- just is really nice, Claire. You deserve it.” He sits back in his chair and exhales. “I dunno, that’s all.”

Claire smiles at him, blinking rapidly to ward off the tears she can feel building in her eyes. She wants to tell him what he means to her. That she was almost in love with him back then. That she never really got over him. That, maybe, she’s having those feelings again now.

“Wow, Brad…”

He frowns, taking her hesitance for something else. “Forget it.” He waves his hand through the air in front of him, batting his words away. “It was stupid.”

“No it wasn’t. Hey.” She leans across the table and rests her hand on the tablecloth, palm facing up. Brad’s still kind of brooding, but he doesn't hesitate to put his hand in hers (which is apparently just a thing they do now). “That means the world to me, Brad. Truly.”

They’re words they’ve said to each other before. It’s not exactly what she wants to tell him, but she doesn’t trust herself to express whatever it is she’s feeling just yet, so this will have to do.

And it seems to be enough, because Brad’s smiling back at her. He lifts his glass of sangria and peers at it, holding it up to the light.

“What is in this stuff?”

“Who knows.” Claire laughs. “Spanish magic.”

“Or Spanish absinthe.”

“Hah, sure. Or that.”

She has her exit path now -- right there in front of her -- and it would be so easy to keep the jokes going. But he’s been so sweet and open with her that she can’t move on without telling him.

“Hey Brad,” she says, squeezing his hand. “I’m proud of you too, you know.”

His face brightens with a little bashful smile that is so adorable she could cry. He ducks his head and runs his thumb along the inside of her wrist, and Claire’s never been so grateful for a table as she is for the one that’s currently between them. Because if there wasn’t a barrier between them, she doesn't think she’d be able to stop herself from hiding her face in the crook his neck before kissing the underside of his jaw, his cheek, his lips.

But there is a table (thank god) so she holds those feelings inside her and tries to memorize every part of this tipsy, sheepish Brad.

“You don’t have to say that just ‘cause I said it.”

“I’m not. I mean it.”

He looks down at the joined hands and shakes his head. “Thanks, Claire.”

***

The first time either of them even remotely acknowledges the fact that they agreed to share a bed again tonight is when they step into the elevator and Claire presses the button for the seventh floor.

It’s easier now that they’ve both got some booze in them. In a sense she’s glad she agreed to this, because after their conversation at the restaurant she feels closer to Brad than ever, and she doesn’t want to go their separate ways just yet. Not to mention the fact that she’s bone tired and she actually did sleep pretty well last night, so maybe there really is something to his idea.

If Brad’s having any second thoughts about his proposed sleeping arrangements, he doesn’t let on. He’s leaning back against the mirrored wall, fighting off yawns and ostensibly asking her advice about what spices he should use in his next olive brine (but really just thinking aloud).

She humors him, though, tossing out increasingly off-key suggestions until he catches on. He shakes his head and scolds her halfheartedly as the elevator doors open, and then they’re walking down the hall to his room like it's something they do every night.

When they get to his door Brad fumbles around trying to find the keycard in his wallet, first extracting his MetroCard and then, after locating the keycard, dropping it on the floor. Claire’s wondering what’s gotten into him when he finally gets the door open and she’s hit with a wall of humid air.

“Umm, Brad…” she says, following him over the threshold. “Why does it feel like the Amazon in here?”

“What do you mean?”

He tosses his wallet onto the dresser and kicks off his shoes in opposite directions, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it’s at least 10 degrees warmer in here than it is in the rest of the hotel. Claire lets the door swing closed behind her and walks toward the AC unit to check what tropical setting he left it on. But she stops halfway there when she sees a curtain flutter.

“You left the windows open?!”

“You bet I did,” he says, barely looking up from his suitcase, which he’s now rummaging through. “Too much air conditioning is bad for you, Claire. My skin has been super dry since we got here. Plus, who knows if they ever clean the filters.”

“Uh-huh. I see your point. But consider this...” She walks to the open window and pulls it closed. “The air quality in cities isn’t that great for you either. And maybe your skin is dry because you’re not good about reapplying sunblock.”

Brad huffs, straightening from his suitcase (the contents of which are now mostly on the floor) with a pair of basketball shorts in his hands.

“Just because I don’t have to put on sunblock every twenty minutes like _some_ people doesn’t mean I’m not good at reapplying it.”

Claire rolls her eyes and goes to the AC, pressing the down-arrow button until she hears the air kick on.

“You’re right, it doesn’t,” she says, turning to him with a satisfied smile. “But the fact that you have a sunburn does.”

“Pfft.” Brad holds his arms out in front of him, scanning them for redness. “I don’t have a sunburn.”

“Yeah you do.”

“Oh yeah? Where?”

Claire slowly crosses the room and stops just in front of him. Brad goes quiet as she reaches up to touch the pink skin on his face. “Here,” she says, lightly tracing the curve of one cheekbone with her fingertip. “And here.” She repeats the motion on the other side.

She can feel Brad watching her, and when she drops her hand and glances at him everything feels so still. He’s looking at her with the same softness in his eyes that she briefly saw yesterday in her bathroom mirror, after he’d helped her with her dress.

But unlike last time, when she freaked out and focused on applying her mascara, tonight she can’t bring herself to look away. She’s been feeling extra nostalgic since he started talking about the old press trips, and if she’s honest with herself, the way he’s looking at her now is the way she used to wish he’d look at her back then.

It’s hard not to linger in this moment. And, thanks to the sangria, for once it’s _not_ hard to stop herself from wondering what it might mean. So she lets herself enjoy it. Maybe a little too much, because without meaning to she’s swaying toward him just a fraction of an inch, lifting up on her tiptoes ever so slightly.

For the first time in ages Claire feels like she’s on the knife’s edge of something, and she’s not sure which way she’s going to fall. It’s exhilarating. She wonders if Brad feels it, too.

She licks her lips, just to see what will happen, and a thrill runs through her when Brad’s gaze drops to her mouth. She bites her bottom lip, fighting off a smirk, but then his face clouds over. Claire lowers her heels back to the carpet.

Brad shifts on his feet, looking off to the side. “Hah, well, a little sun never hurt anyone, right?”

“Sure, Brad.”

He glances at her with what must be an attempt at a smile, but never quite gets there. She recognizes it as an apology, or perhaps gratitude, and she finds herself wondering what he was going to say when she linked their fingers back at the vineyard, before she stopped him.

“So, uh.” He clears his throat and takes a step back. “These are for you.”

Claire’s mind is still a few steps behind, and she stares in confusion at the mesh shorts he’s offering her.

“To sleep in,” he continues. “If you want. Your shirt is still…” He nods toward the chaise lounge and she sees it’s still there, neatly folded where she left it this morning.

“Oh. Oh, great,” she says, taking the shorts from him. She’s glad one of them has their head in the game -- she’d almost forgotten the predicament she found herself in this morning with the whole shirt-riding-up thing. “Thank you. That’s- that’s great.”

Before he can see her blush she turns, grabs the shirt, and heads to the bathroom to change.

***

“Claire, come on, do we seriously have to keep the temperature this low all night?”

“Please, it’s at sixty eight. That’s a perfectly acceptable thermostat level. Besides, this way we get to burrow under the covers.”

When Claire had finished in the bathroom and Brad went in to brush his teeth, she shivered delightedly and climbed in bed under the duvet. Brad threw her a dubious look when he came out of the bathroom (in the same PJs as last night) and saw just the top of her head peeking out from the covers, but he dutifully got in under the duvet on the other side.

“You’re one of those people who sleep with blankets on all summer, huh Saffitz?”

“So what if I am? You sleep more soundly when the room temperature is lower, you know.”

“Oh yeah? Says who? A study funded by Big Air Conditioning, I bet.”

“Big Air Conditioning?” Claire giggles and tries to kick him under the covers, but her toes just graze his knee. “Yeah, that’s a thing.”

Brad yawns and stretches. “Probably is a thing,” he mutters.

“Tell you what,” she says, turning away from him and getting comfy on her side. “We can Google it in the morning.”

“You bet we will. And what do I get when it turns out I’m right?”

“On the off chance that happens, I’ll make the coffee run tomorrow.”

“Yeah, _okay_. Fat chance of that happening.”

“You mean fat chance that you’re right?”

“If that’s what you need to think to sleep at night, then sure, that’s what I meant, Claire.”

The bed shifts and Claire hears the click of Brad turning off the bedside lamp. Aside from the soft streetlight peeking in from gaps in the curtains, the room is completely dark. Claire’s eyelids grow blissfully heavy, and she can feel sleep creeping up on her.

Brad doesn’t seem to be having the same luck. She can feel him tossing and turning, and even though it’s keeping her from nodding off it’s still mostly adorable.

“You okay over there?”

“Oh, sure, I’m fine, aside from the fact that I now live on the freaking tundra, apparently.”

“Brad, please.”

“No seriously. Like, my nose is cold.”

“Oh, come here.”

Claire reaches behind her and feels around under the duvet until she finds Brad’s forearm. Holding onto his wrist, she pulls his arm around her and scoots back a few inches. She has to tug on his arm again for him before he gets the idea and hesitantly settles in behind her.

For a solid minute neither of them moves. Claire acted impulsively -- she’s tipsy and cosy and just wants to _sleep_ \-- but now she worries she might’ve made him uncomfortable, especially considering how he reacted when she, er, pointed out his sunburn.

“Um. This okay?” she asks, voice sounding smaller than she’d like.

“Yeah.” Brad clears his throat. “I mean, if it’s okay with you.”

“It was my idea.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And it’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

Her reminder hangs in the air for a moment and she wonders if they’re both thinking of how they woke up this morning. And how this -- _choosing_ to sleep like this -- is something else entirely.

“Hah, true,” Brad says.

Claire forces herself to close her eyes and take some long, deep breaths. Soon Brad relaxes too, tucking his legs in behind hers and letting his arm fall more naturally around her waist. She lets go of his wrist and tucks her hands under her chin; the pretense of all this is supposed to be about sleeping -- not cuddling.

Still, she’d be lying if she claimed she didn’t let herself enjoy it. She’s been chasing sleep this whole trip, but now she fights it off for as long as she can. She wants to remember what it’s like to be held by Brad because he _wants_ to, versus something he did unknowingly in his sleep.

For someone who was pretty restless and kind of grumpy a few minutes ago, Brad seems to be close to drifting off himself. Claire’s wondering whether he’s fallen asleep when he gently tugs her back and closer to him. It feels so good with him pressed up behind her that she’s not even embarrassed when she lets out a quiet sigh.

“Hey Claire?” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll still get the coffee tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“Even after we confirm that I’m right about Big Air Conditioning.”

Claire giggles and covers his arm around her waist with hers.

“_Goodnight_, Brad.”

“Night, Half-Sour.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brad & claire wake up together (again), speak at a con panel, & continue to feel feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the PENULTIMATE chapter (for real this time)!!!
> 
> friendly reminder that this is slow burn... and friendly promise that there will be a payoff <3
> 
> lmk your thoughts/continue to yell at me/etc!!

One of the few good things about having sleep issues is that Claire almost always remembers her dreams. A freshman science professor explained the reason for this, though she forgets the specifics. Something about how dreams most often occur outside of the REM cycle, which can be elusive to light sleepers and, thus, they’re more prone to dreaming.

Claire’s never minded this one facet of her fitful sleeping habits. She likes trying to remember her dreams after she wakes, turning them over in her mind and trying to work out their meaning before they slip away. It’s a good way to kill some time on the subway, if nothing else.

But this morning, as she slowly rouses to consciousness, she mentally reaches out for her dream and nothing’s there.

Wow. She must’ve slept _that_ soundly.

She sighs sleepily, reveling in that blissful comfort you only feel right before you have to get up. Today’s is extra nice, though. The room is cool but she’s the perfect temperature under the heavy duvet, thanks to the person next to her.

And… kind of under her?

It all comes rushing back, then -- where she is, _who_ she’s with -- and it doesn’t cause Kill Bill-style alarm bells to go off in her brain like yesterday, but she still feels her pulse pick up.

When she opens her eyes a crack all she can see is the t-shirt covering Brad’s chest, which her cheek is currently resting on. She shifts, getting a feel for how the rest of her is situated. Brad’s on his back and she’s lying half on top of him. One of her arms is wedged between their bodies, and the other is slung over his waist. And if that wasn’t alarming enough, one of her legs is hitched up over his thigh.

Claire has never been so grateful to be wearing a pair of someone else’s shorts.

It’s not that she isn’t panicking (because she definitely, definitely is) but this morning another feeling is highly in the mix, canceling out the flight part of her fight-or-flight response. Because Brad is all around her -- she can smell his fabric softener with each inhale, feel how solid he is beneath her arm, hear the steady sound of his breaths right above her ear. Warmth and arousal are flooding her body, seeping in from all angles, and it takes some serious self control to stop herself from rocking her hips forward, seeking out contact.

She _wants_ him. Which isn’t new, but it’s never been so tangible. So… plausible even. Because for the first time since she’s known Brad she’s starting to question whether her feelings are as one-sided as she once believed.

To take her mind off the really distracting physical reaction her body is having right now, she breathes deeply and tries to go through the facts: Brad encouraged her to come on this trip with him; he’s hasn’t shied away from touching her -- hugging her in the lobby, letting her nap on him on the rooftop bar, walking arm-in-arm through the cobblestone streets. And all that was before the bed sharing and the hand holding and the quiet, heartfelt talks.

But before Claire lets herself get carried away with some rare optimism, she reminds herself of one critical counterpoint: there’s still something holding him back.

With that sobering thought, she inches backwards, trying to disentangle her body from his without waking him. She’s almost done it and is getting ready to make her escape when Brad grunts in his sleep and rolls toward her, onto his side, and traps her in place with an arm around her back.

After going still for a moment to make sure he’s still asleep, Claire exhales in frustration at more or less being back where she started. This, however, turns out to have been a bad idea, because her mouth is now just inches from Brad’s neck. The feeling of her breath on his skin must trigger something in his subconscious, because Brad mumbles something in his sleep (that sounds a lot like her name) and uses the arm behind her back to pull her more firmly against him.

Claire gasps at the shock of it, biting her lip as she tries to think of anything aside from the feeling of their bodies practically molded together. It’s a sad attempt, and it doesn’t last long because suddenly she’s distinctly, acutely, and painfully aware of the fact that Brad is hard against her.

The arousal that Claire was struggling to tamp down earlier comes blazing back to life and there’s nothing she can do about it now. His erection is pressing into her belly and there’s an increasingly not-so-dull ache between her legs and she could swear she set the thermostat to a cool sixty-four degrees last night but suddenly it’s hot as _hell_ in this room.

But as turned on as she is, she never forgets that Brad is asleep and that this is purely a physiological reaction. And so after a few seconds of being frozen by shock, she wriggles free of his grasp and moves away from him until she’s practically falling off the other side of the bed.

Brad’s brow furrows at the sudden change and his arm reaches out, like he’s searching for her. Claire pulls the duvet up to her chin and watches him wake up the rest of the way. By the time he groans and runs a hand down his face she has her breathing back under control.

“Ohhh man,” he says through a yawn. “I slept like the _dead_, I’ll tell you that much. Boy I needed that.”

Claire smiles as he rolls onto his back and stretches, complete with sound effects. “Yeah I kinda did too.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, turning to look at her. His brow furrows again. “Hey, what are you doing all the way over there?”

“I, oh, um, I dunno.” She laughs nervously, feeling her cheeks flush. “Must’ve moved in my sleep I guess.”

“Oh.”

Brad studies her face like he doesn’t quite believe her and Claire wonders if he’s still hard under the covers. That thought is the one that finally has her tapping out of this situation, and she throws the duvet off her and almost tumbles out of bed.

“Uh, Claire…” Brad sits up, leaning back on his elbows as he watches her dart around the room, picking up her stuff. “You alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” she says, and even to her it sounds like the least convincing thing ever uttered.

“Are ya though? Because it seems like you’re like majorly freaking out right now.”

“Yeah yeah, I’m good.” She throws him a hopefully reassuring smile as she grabs her phone from the nightstand. When she sees the time and that she has two missed calls from Marco, her chest fills with another kind of panic. “Ummm Brad. What time were we supposed to be downstairs?”

“Marco said the car would pick us up at nine o’clock. Why?”

Claire throws her head back and groans, which actually feels super good after everything. “That was four minutes ago.”

“Oh shit,” Brad mutters. He tosses the covers off him to get out of bed and Claire spins around to face the door.

“I’ll call him,” she says over her shoulder, hand already on the door handle. “Tell him we’ll be down in fifteen.”

“Okay, then _I’ll_ call him and tell him how to convert fifteen Claire minutes to Earth time,” Brad calls after her. She can hear him chuckling to himself as the door swings closed behind her.

***

“Ayyyy there she is!” Brad shouts as soon as he spots Claire rushing through the hotel lobby. Several people waiting in line at reception turn to stare, but Brad, checking his watch, doesn’t notice. “Not too shabby, Claire, not too shabby.”

“That was literally as fast as I could get ready,” she says when she gets to him, trying to seem less out of breath than she is. “Didn’t even finish drying my hair.”

He glances at her hair then drags his gaze down her body. “Well ya look great to me.”

“Thanks, Brad.” Claire ducks her head and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. She promised herself she’d put the... thing... that happened earlier out of her mind for now, but the way he’s looking at her really isn’t helping. “So, um. Is Marco here?”

“Yeah, he’s waiting in the car,” he says, nodding toward the street. “Oh and, as promised, this is for you.” He hands her what looks to be a venti iced latte. “Didn’t have time to run to the usual cafe, but I know how you love that iced coffee of yours.”

“I do.” She smiles, accepting the cup and taking that first blissful sip through the straw. “Mmm it’s perfect. Thank you.”

Brad’s chest puffs up at the compliment. “Anytime, Claire. That’s what I’m here for.”

She chuckles as they start to walk toward the exit. “You’re here to get my coffee?”

“Hey, if that’s what the talent wants.”

***

Brad and Claire spend most of the ride to the convention center trying to figure out if Big Air Conditioning a) exists and b) has influenced the findings of sleep temperature studies. Their results are inconclusive, but both firmly believe that they are right.

Today they’re doing a panel at a YouTuber con, where they have top billing. It’s the last press event they have before flying home tomorrow, and even though they’ve been here for a few days now it still blows Claire's mind that people in Spain know who they are.

She’s thankful that she and Brad are doing this one last activity together on this trip. It’s just so much easier with him here. He’s a people-person who thrives on attention and interaction, regardless of language barriers, and it allows her to take the tiniest bit of a backseat, which is where she’s most comfortable at events like this.

So she lets Brad charm the organizers and guide her around the backstage area with a hand on the small of her back, a touch that is relatively new but already feels normal -- and, besides, there’s no one here to see.

When they eventually have to go out into the throng of attendees in the main halls Claire expects him to drop his hand, but it stays put, strong and comforting. She’s grateful because it’s not long before fans notice them and soon they’re mobbed -- her, especially -- by a group of teenagers, who immediately turn around to take selfies before peppering them with questions. When it starts to get overwhelming Claire squeezes Brad’s wrist, and he barely has to glance at her to get the idea.

“Alright, alright everyone,” he shouts, booming voice quieting the melee around them. “I know Claire is a hot commodity, but we’re doing photos later so you’ll all get your turn then, okay? Si? But now we have a panel to be at, so if one of you can point the way to hall C...”

The girls giggle and step back, pointing out where they should go, and Claire desperately wants to find it ridiculous -- that he can charm anyone and everyone this easily -- but, honestly, she’s just as charmed by him as they are.

As they make their way to the panel hall Brad moves his hand to the join of her neck and shoulder, and keeps it there until it’s time to take their seats.

***

The panel goes well. Exceptionally well, actually, and the photo session is kind of a blast too. The panel room was packed, which Claire hadn’t been expecting since they can barely speak a dozen words in Spanish between them. But the audience was amazing and wound up being a heartwarming example of how some things -- food, friendship, and cooking-related meltdowns -- are universal.

There’s a long line for the photos, too. They decided to do them together, and now that the stress of the panel is behind her Claire can fully enjoy herself. Brad seems to be in a good mood as well, dazzling everyone left and right, making even the shyest fans feel special and at ease.

Claire’s favorites are the big groups. Not only are they excited and boisterous, but they all have to squeeze in close to fit in the frame and, more often than not, Brad’s arm winds up around her waist. Each time he does it it sends a spark through her, stoking the fire that she thought she doused with a cold shower this morning.

Plus, all of that aside, she just plain likes being near him. So even when he’s not touching her she stays close, leaning against his side when they have a short break and playing with the frayed cuff of his flannel, initially under the guise of scolding him for not packing something nicer and, later, just because. (He doesn’t seem to mind.)

By the time the photo session is drawing to an end, there’s hardly a moment where they’re not touching in some way or another. Somewhere after her third coffee (because no matter how much sleep Claire gets, she’ll always need a heavy dose of caffeine) they crossed over from stolen touches to outright flirting.

Brad teases her with every chance he gets, to the delight of the fans, making her blush and stammer and glare, depending on what the situation merritts. For her part, Claire tries to get under his skin, to the extent that anyone can get under Brad Leone’s skin, which is to say not very much. But it’s a good effort, based on how he reacts when she swirls her tongue around her Starbucks straw or winks at him when his charm starts bordering on smarmy.

When it’s finally time to call it a night her cheeks ache from smiling and she’s brimming with an internal effervescence that she hasn’t felt since she got her first crush back in high school. It’s _nice_ in a way that almost feels like it could be enough.

***

The car ride back to the hotel is quiet. They parted ways with Marco at the convention center with warm hugs and promises to keep in touch. Despite that momentary weirdness between him and Brad on the bar crawl, the two guys have become especially fond of one another, and Brad promises Marco he’ll show him an even wilder night out if he ever visits New York.

The sun sinks lower in the sky as the car drives through the winding streets, casting pink and purple hues along the edges of the horizon. In the backseat, Claire sighs and scoots over closer to Brad so she can lean her head on his shoulder. Brad places his hand on her knee and, after a moment, gently rests his cheek on the crown of her head.

“Today was fun,” he says, squeezing her leg.

“Yeah. It really was. I’m so glad we got to do that.”

“And are you-- Are we-- I mean, we’re okay right?”

Claire’s frowns at the question. She wants to look at him to see what she can read on his face, but ultimately she’s too content to move, cozied up beside him like this.

“Of course we are,” she says instead, as earnestly as she can. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Oh good. Good.” Brad exhales. “I dunno, this morning I just. I didn’t know what was going on. You looked like you’d seen a freakin’ ghost or something and then practically ran out of the room.”

“Oh…” is the best Claire can do in this moment. She swallows thickly as the… incident… from this morning comes rushing back to her in full color.

(Brad all around her, holding her body against his. She tried not to think about it in the shower, as she turned the water temperature lower and lower. The way her breasts pressed into his chest, how her foot had slipped between his ankles, the fact that she maybe, possibly tilted her hips forward when she felt the hard length of him pressing into her stomach.)

It’s a lot, especially after successfully keeping it out of her thoughts all day, and she’s glad he can’t see her face right now because it must be crimson.

“I just got worried that I did something or, hell, talked in my sleep and said some weird shit. I’ve been known to do that before...”

Claire holds back a giggle at his last confession -- based on the way he trailed off she just knows there’s a story there. But she’ll have to ask about it another time, because their trip is quickly nearing its end and it’s now clear to her that they can’t just go home and go back to normal. She can’t, at least.

“No no, you didn’t say anything Brad. I just…” She closes her eyes, trying to find the right words and coming up empty. “Do you want to go get a drink? I think… I think we should talk.”

“Of course,” he says. He rubs his thumb back and forth along her knee and it’s absurd how comforting it is. “I was actually thinking we could go up to the ole rooftop bar, for old time’s sake. Whaddaya say?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay sorry to end on yet another cliffhanger (and without a kiss) //ducks from the shit you're all mentally throwing at me// but I have some good momentum going so needed to post to keep it up!! the next chapter is 33% done and I promise to post it soon okay ilu <3
> 
> also!! there's a rating change coming your way, so heads up...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brad & claire go to the rooftop bar, admit things, & do other things instead of sleeping...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand this fic, which was originally supposed to be a one-shot, has finally come to an end merely 9 chapters later!! lolll
> 
> thanks for reading and for all of your kudos, comments, messages, etc! I can't wait to hear what you think about how things end up. you definitely won't be able to yell at me about a lack of kissing this time :D :D
> 
> on a related note, peep the rating change...

The weather has finally cooled down, to the point that Claire actually suggests they sit out on the balcony instead of in the air conditioned bar area, where Brad had found her in her slippers a few nights ago.

Brad orders a bottle of cava (“When in Rome, right Claire?”) and they get settled at a hightop by the band. The quietness they found in the car has followed them here and Claire’s grateful for it. She knows they should talk, but she also doesn’t actually want to do the talking. She wishes she could live here forever, in this space inbetween, where anything is possible.

“I wish we didn’t have to leave,” she says, sighing.

Brad looks at her sideways, eyes twinkling. “So don’t. Stay here with me.” He nods toward the musicians. “We’ll start a jazz band.”

Claire laughs, keeping her eyes on the glass in her hand. “I don’t know how to play any instruments.”

“Bah that doesn’t matter. You’re a quick learner, Claire. You’ll pick it up in no time.”

“Oh yeah?” She arches a brow at him. “And what will you play?”

Brad holds up his hands and gives her that look that he gets when he can’t believe someone so smart can be so daft. “Ummm lead guitarist and vocalist. Obviously.”

“Uh-huh.” Claire giggles and takes a sip of her wine. “Yeah, obviously.”

And so they pass another hour talking about nothing in particular, skirting the subject and never quite getting there. Not long after the sun sets, Brad empties the last of the cava into their glasses and gives Claire a long look. She holds his gaze, wondering if he looks a little scared or if she’s just projecting.

His voice is soft when he finally says, “So what did you want to talk about, Claire?”

She exhales and looks up at the night sky, as if she might find the answers there amongst the stars. But they’re in the middle of a city, and all she finds is light pollution and a passing plane.

So she shrugs her shoulders and breathes out a shaky laugh. “I, um. I dunno, Brad.” She blinks rapidly, trying her best not to tear up. “I’m _scared_.”

It’s not _the_ truth, but it’s a truth, and it’s a start.

Brad takes the wine glass from her, places it on the table, and links their fingers together.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s alright,” he says, leaning in a little closer. “It’s just me.”

“I know. That’s the problem.” She meets his eyes again and it kills her that he looks kind of hurt. “You’re not _just_ you anymore, Brad.” She takes a deep breath and trains her eyes on their joined hands. “Not to me,” she finishes quietly.

“Oh.”

She can’t bring herself to look at him -- just can’t bear it -- but she can still imagine his face plain as day. She knows he’s blinking at her in confusion, gears turning as he tries to work out what to say. How to best let her down.

“Claire, look…” is how he starts.

“No, it’s fine Brad.” She cuts him off, not wanting to hear the rest. “You don’t have to-- I just feel like I’ve been acting strangely this whole trip, so I wanted to let you know why. It doesn’t have to be a whole thing.”

“Woah woah woah, slow down a second, will you?” Brad squeezes her hand and runs his thumb over her knuckles. “You talked, now I get to talk. That’s how conversations worked, last time I checked. Even in Europe.”

It’s not that funny but he’s _trying_, and Claire loves him for it. She laughs, color filling her cheeks.

“Sorry.” She ventures a glance at him and his face has gone all soft and still, which can’t mean anything good. “Go ahead, Brad.”

“What I was _going_ to say,” he starts, narrowing his eyes at her in mock annoyance. “Is that…” He looks at their linked hands, brow set like he’s concentrating hard. “Well you know words are like-- they’re not my thing. But, I mean, uh, like you said, Claire.”

His eyes find hers, tender and vulnerable, and Claire can’t breathe.

“You’re not just you anymore, either,” he continues. “Ya know, to me.”

Now Claire’s the one blinking, mouth falling open in surprise. “Oh.”

“Yeah…” He ducks his head, cheeks rosy and bashful, and Claire wants to lean in and kiss him. She almost does. It might be okay now.

But it might not. She feels like she could burst from the joy and relief of knowing it’s not just her -- there’s something between them, and he feels it too. But at the same time she knows, deep down, that she shouldn’t get ahead of herself. Because, sure, they admitted something, but... what did they actually admit to?

She owes it to Brad -- and to herself -- to know the answer for sure before making any rash moves.

He’s watching her intently, bouncing his knee like he’s nervous -- like she wasn’t the one who admitted her feelings first. Claire prides herself on her ability to read him like a book in most scenarios, but she’s at a loss on this one.

And, no, she doesn’t want to make any rash moves -- but she also doesn’t want him to question where he stands with her, and she thinks he might be doing that right now. So she leans in, steadies herself with a hand on his thigh, and presses a kiss to his cheek.

After she kisses him she pauses, lips millimeters from his skin. She knows this is the part where she should be moving away, sitting back in her seat, but her body’s not cooperating. So she kisses his cheek again -- because it feels good, because she wants to -- and this time Brad turns his head, catching the corner of her mouth.

Claire lets out a sharp breath, nails digging into his thigh. His breathing sounds shallow too, and she waits a few beats to see if he’ll make a move. Maybe he’ll tilt her chin toward him and kiss her properly. Maybe he’ll say her name in that heavy way he did when they sat together, back at the vineyard.

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t -- he’s good and considerate and he’s letting her decide what to do next.

And, man, there is a laundry list of things she wants to do next. But all of them would most certainly be categorized as rash, and at least half would be categorized as things-you-can’t-legally-do-on-a-rooftop-bar.

So with all the willpower she can muster, Claire pulls away. When she takes her hand off his thigh and sits all the way back in her chair it’s a small consolation to find that he appears to be just as dazed as she feels.

They look at each other for a heavy moment, reeling by how much has changed in the span of a few minutes. Claire wishes they had a few more days in Madrid to work this out, because there’s so much she wants to say -- so much she wants to ask him -- and she’s on the first flight home in the morning.

She knows that whatever they have between them, right now, is fragile, and she’s not sure whether it’ll make it home in one piece. It’s no wonder all of this came to a head in Madrid, where the oppressive heat and meandering streets make it so life can’t move too fast. It’s like the city was designed for long lunches and late nights and deep discussions about the things that matter most.

New York, on the other hand, was designed for efficiency; to get you from A to B at breakneck speed, to keep you moving, moving, moving, and to be thankful for it. But how will they figure out what they have -- what this could be -- when they go back to manic work days and crammed subway rides and book deadlines and viewer engagement strategies?

Claire can practically hear the seconds ticking away now, and panic rises inside her.

“I wish we didn’t have to leave,” she says for the second time tonight. And she means it (also for the second time).

“I know.” Brad brings their joined hands to his mouth, brushes his lips over her knuckles. “What time is your flight?”

“Seven,” she says, trying her best not to pout.

Brad stands, and there’s no fighting the pout now.

“Come on, Claire,” he says, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to her feet. “I’ll help you pack.”

***

It takes a while for the elevator to arrive on the top floor, and by the time the doors open Claire doesn’t think she’s ever felt so restless. It’s getting late and she’s been yearning for sleep this whole trip, but tonight it’s the last thing on her mind.

And forget about packing. Under normal circumstances she enjoys packing -- folding everything up neatly and arranging it just so is relaxing to her -- but now she’d happily abandon all her things if it meant getting clarity with Brad.

At least he’s coming back to her room with her. Maybe that’ll buy her time to work up the courage to tell him how she really feels. What she really wants.

Brad guides her onto the lift with a hand on the small of her back -- a touch he’s been doing all day but, tonight, is close to unbearable because it’s nowhere near enough. Once the door closes and they being the slow journey down, Claire steps away and leans against the wall opposite Brad.

If he thinks it’s odd he doesn’t mention it. He leans back too, mirroring her body language and sneaking glances at her that are way too shy considering what they just confessed. The tension between them is amplified in this small space, and Claire clasps her hands together to keep herself from going over to him and sliding them up his chest.

When the bell chimes and the doors open on her floor, she’s out of there like a shot.

***

“Jeez, Claire, you’re really in a rush to pack, huh?” Brad calls after her as she sets off down the hallway.

It doesn’t take Brad long to catch up. Living in New York has made her a pretty fast speed walker, but she’s still no match for him and his long damn legs.

She doesn’t bother answering him. Her door is in sight, and if she can just get to her room and take a few minutes in the bathroom, splash some water on her face, she might be able to think straight. The door handle is nearly within reach when Brad grabs onto her wrist and pulls her to a stop.

She turns, eyes finding his, and in that moment she’s a goner.

“Hey, hang on,” he says quietly. She wonders if he’s bewildered by her actions once again, but there’s nothing questioning about the way he’s looking at her right now. “_Claire_…”

And there it is. The sound of her name on his lips, like it’s something sacred, is overwhelming. She steps back until she’s up against the wall and Brad follows, as if pulled by a magnet. His hands find her waist as he steps in close and Claire bites her bottom lip, hips tilting toward him, back arching away from the wall and into his touch.

“Claire, I--”

She shakes her head, silencing him as she finally allows herself to smooth her hands up his chest. She leaves one there, over his heart, and the other keeps going until she can feel his stubble beneath her palm.

“_Brad_.”

Her voice comes out needy and desperate, but she can’t find it in herself to care. Because Brad sets his jaw, like he just made a decision, and bends down until his nose is just grazing her cheek. With a shaky inhale, Claire tilts her chin up and slants her lips over his.

For a moment everything goes still. Nothing exists besides them and this hallway, and the only thing anchoring Chaire to reality is the feeling of Brad’s lips on hers.

It starts soft and slow. Brad kisses her gently, sliding one of his hands from her waist around to her back and pulling her more firmly against him. Claire lifts up onto her toes to get even closer, looping her arms around his neck as he changes the angle of the kiss.

She gets that restless feeling again. She’s been thinking -- hell, dreaming -- about kissing him for the longest time, and now that it’s happening somehow both more than she can handle and not nearly enough.

She decides she needs more of him. She slides one hand up into his hair, raking her nails down his scalp. Brad studders out a gasp against her lips and she takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, nipping at his bottom lip before slipping her tongue into his mouth.

Brad’s right there with her. He squeezes her waist and steps in closer, pinning her against the wall. His tongue glides along hers, and when he licks the roof of her mouth Claire lets out a choked-back whipmer.

Suddenly Brad breaks the kiss, swearing under his breath as he leans his forehead against hers. He takes a half step back, keeping his hands on her waist, like he needs distance but doesn’t want to let go just yet.

Claire blinks up at him, panting as she tries to get her bearings.

“What’s wrong?” she whispers.

Brad just shakes his head, smiling sadly as he cups her cheek with his hand. She watches him, bringing both of her hands back to rest on his chest.

“Claire, like… I just... I have to tell you.” He pauses, taking a deep breath and smoothing his thumb across her cheek. “At this point you’ve gotta know I’m in love with you, Claire.”

She gapes at him, letting that sink in. She’s half expecting him to correct himself or play it off like a joke, but he doesn't. He just watches her with this resigned look in his eyes, like he sliced himself open, right down the middle, and it’s all for her.

“You… love me?”

“Yeah.” Brad nods, then shrugs one shoulder. “Kinda thought you’d figured it out by now. But I just… I dunno. I just had to say it.”

Claire tries not to -- she really, truly does -- but she can’t stop herself from bursting out laughing. She rests her forehead against Brad’s chest, giggling while trying to get ahold of herself. She can tell he’s bristling and she feels bad -- she can imagine what he must think -- but it’s all just so absurd.

“Oh my god,” she says when she’s on her way to recovery. She leans back against the wall and grins up at him. He looks as confused as he’s ever been and it makes her smile ever wider. “We’re so dumb, Brad.”

“Uh… What?”

“God, we’re so dumb. And stupid! So stupid.”

“Um, okay, can you please tell me what is going on or--”

She quiets him by closing the space between them and looping her arms around his neck. Somehow she’s still nervous about saying it, but he looks so vulnerable and confused that she can’t make him wait a second longer.

“I’m in love with you, too, Brad.”

“You… You, wait. You. What?”

Claire gently tugs on his shoulders to get him to lean back down and she crowds in even closer.

“I’m in love with you, too.” She kisses his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “Have been for a while. That’s why we’re dumb.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, smiling as she leans in to kiss him.

***

Claire isn’t sure how long they would’ve stayed in the hallway (or what they would’ve done out there…) if the guy across the hall hadn’t opened the door to put his empty room service tray out to be picked up. After some embarrassed smiles and mumbled attempts at “lo siento” Brad and Claire finally stumbled into her room.

It’s dark, the only light coming from the desk lamp that she must’ve left on this morning. A soon as the door shuts behind them it feels like they’re back on the elevator again, tension and electricity buzzing between them. In some ways it’s worse now, because she can still taste him on her tongue and her mind is reeling.

So she walks to the center of the room, fingers ghosting over her lips, which are still tingling from the feel of him. She stands with her back to him, absentmindedly stepping out of her shoes as she tries to work out the difference between what she wants and what is the best course of action. Not for the first time she wishes she wasn’t like this -- always prioritizing logic over spontaneity -- but there’s no helping it now.

“So, um,” she starts, running a shaky hand through her hair. “Should we--”

Brad gently grabs her wrist and pulls her around to face him, and she’s never been so glad to be cut off in her life. He stoops to lean in close, nose brushing hers.

“Later,” he murmurs, before kissing her deeply.

Claire saw it coming a mile away but she still gasps, stomach swirling with over-excited butterflies. She’s kissing _Brad_. Who _loves_ her back. The happiness she feels in this moment is staggering and overwhelming, so she focuses on the here and now.

Brad’s hands start off tentative. He rests them on her lower back, long fingers spanning the width of her waist, before sliding them upwards to pull her closer to him. The movement makes her shirt bunch up and it’s not long before Brad takes the opportunity to slip one hand beneath the fabric and flatten his palm on her bare skin, just above the waist of her jeans.

It’s not a particularly intimate touch, in the grand scheme of things, but it leaves Claire breathless. She breaks the kiss and leans her forehead against his shoulder to catch her breath. Brad doesn’t help things when he ducks to kiss the shell of her ear, gliding his hand upwards until his fingertips bump against the band of her bra.

And just like that Claire is transported back to the last time they were in her hotel room together, when he helped her do up the zipper on the back of her dress and she was still trying to tell herself she wasn’t in love with him (again).

“God, Brad...” she whispers.

There’s so much she wants to say but she can’t exactly think clearly standing here like this, with his hands roaming her back and his breath hot on her ear. So she does what she always does when words and critical thinking fails her -- she puts herself in motion.

Brad looks adorably confused at first when she puts some space between them so she can grip his hips and walk him back toward the bed. When the backs of his knees bump against the mattress Claire gives him the smallest push, knocking him off balance just enough so that he sits on the duvet.

It’s satisfying, maneuvering him like that. Brad must read it on her face because he’s giving her that look like he’s about to tell her the gourmet caramel she made is _too_ good, actually.

“Oh, bossing me around already, huh?” Brad squints at her, eyes shining as he teases. He reaches for her, both hands inching up under her shirt as he pulls her closer.

Claire steps between his legs, hands playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as she tries to glare at him. “I always boss you around.”

Brad slowly rakes his eyes down his body. “Not like this.”

Claire swallows, blushing all the way down to her chest. They’re practically eye to eye now, with him sitting and her standing, and Claire’s struck by seeing his features this close. Usually there’s an apple box and a joke about her height, but now that there are no cameras and everything’s on the table, she can truly take him in.

She traces her fingers along the edge of his jaw then over his cheekbone, like she did last night. Brad goes still and watches her, face going soft like it has so many times before on this trip. And now she knows what it means.

“You’re still sunburnt,” she says, and then she kisses him.

Claire’s done with going slow, and it appears Brad is on the same page. Any lingering traces of hesitance are gone from his touch when he licks along the seam of her lips and, when she parts them, eases his tongue into her hot mouth.

Moaning softly, Claire pushes her fingers into Brad’s hair and tilts his head back as she steps in to get even closer. It’s not a great angle but she hasn’t got any better ideas, and she’s not about to move away. Luckily Brad -- who’s always had the upper hand when it comes to spatial skills -- has the presence of mind to grip the backs of her thighs and haul her into his lap.

Claire blinks down at him from her new position, panting and impressed. She balances on his thighs, knees bracketing his hips, and tries not to linger on how easy it was for him to pick her up like that (or think about other scenarios in which that strength could be applied).

Thankfully there isn’t much time for lingering because they’re kissing again. Claire’s lost track of who initiated it this time and, really, what does it matter? She’s heady with the feel of him all around her, tongue hot and wet against hers, hands on the skin of her waist, gliding up her sides until his thumbs smooth over the thin fabric of her bra.

She swears under her breath, restlessness rising inside of her again, urging her to seek out more. Claire grips his shoulders for leverage and slides fully into his lap, gasping when she finds him hard and straining against his pants.

Brad moans into her mouth, bringing one hand to the small of her back to steady her in place. A move that, if Claire wasn’t massively turned on, would make her laugh, because she wouldn’t dream of going anywhere. It’s so different from this morning, when he got a hard-on in his sleep. This time she _knows_ it’s for her -- that she did this to him -- and it sends waves of heat straight to her core.

She rocks into him, experimentally at first and then -- when his breath catches -- setting up a steady rhythm. It’s nowhere near enough, too many layers in the way, but it makes her dizzy and wet with want.

Brad’s kisses are slow and languid now, like he’s had to divert mental resources and doesn’t have the brainpower to keep up with her mouth.

“Fuck, Claire… You feel…”

Claire has to suppress a whimper from hearing him say her name like that.

“I know,” she pants, mouthing her way down his neck. “_Brad_.”

Not for the first time on this trip she sounds whinier than she’d like, but tonight it’s truly out of necessity. And sure, sometimes Brad is slow on the uptake, but he’s always been highly attuned to what Claire needs, and this is no different. With the ease he used to lift her before, he shifts and lays her back onto the bed, with her head against the pillows.

Brad stands, and Claire takes the opportunity to catch her breath as he kicks off his sneakers and takes his shirt off. The latter move takes two tries, because he first tries to pull the flanel over his head without undoing any of the buttons, sending one of them flying onto the carpet.

“Oh my god,” Claire laughs as he continues to struggle. “Just unbutton it!”

“Eh,” he says before finally pulling it off and dropping it to the floor. “Takes too long.”

He crawls back onto the bed and Claire can practically hear her heartbeat in her ears as he settles down on top of her. She parts her legs to make room, cradling his hips between her thighs.

“No wonder your shirts are frayed,” she says breathlessly, more to distract herself from the realization that this is actually happening than anything. “You should take better care of them.”

Brad furrows his brow like he has no idea what she’s talking about and, honestly, neither does she. He leans in to kiss the underside of her jaw, fingers tugging on the hem of her shirt.

“Not really thinking about clothing care right now, Claire,” he murmurs, trailing his mouth down the column of her neck.

He presses his lips to her pulse point and sucks gently, creating a sensation that Claire feels all the way down to her toes. He laves her skin with his tongue and sucks again, harder this time, and then Claire’s pushing him away so she can tug her own shirt off. The restlessness she’s been feeling all night is morphing into a kind of impatience, and the next thing she knows she’s reaching behind her and unhooking her bra.

She comes back to herself then, finding Brad hovering over her and watching her with hooded eyes. She pauses, wondering if she’s doing that thing where she’s a bull in a china shop, moving too fast and leaving others in her wake.

But her fears and quelled as Brad takes her in. She thinks she sees him gulp before he lets his gaze leave her face, eyes traveling down her neck and chest before landing on the swell of her breasts. He shifts, putting his weight on one arm so he can touch her with the other. His fingers dust across the line of her collarbone before he drags them down her sternum, to the fabric at the center of her bra.

Claire’s trying to control her reaction, honestly she is, but her chest can’t be described as anything other than _heaving_ as Brad pinches the bridge of her bra between his fingers and slowly pulls it off of her.

Claire holds her breath as his eyes rove over her breasts. She’s distantly aware of the fact that normally, in this moment, she’d feel self-conscious. She’d probably wish they’d turned the lamp off or worry about sucking in her stomach. But here, with Brad, she doesn’t feel any of that. Not even close.

“Jesus,” he breathes, so quietly she wonders if he knows he’s talking. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

He rests his hand on her waist as he takes her in. Then, growing bolder, he slowly slides it up her body until this thumb smooths over the underside of her breast and finds her pebbled nipple.

Claire gasps, arching into his touch. This is her room so she knows she programmed the thermostat as low as it would go, but somehow her skin still feels like it’s on fire. She grips the arm that’s supporting him on the mattress, squeezing his wrist like it’s tethering her to the ground. And it’s a good thing she did, because next Brad circles his thumb around the edge of her nipple before dragging it over the peak again.

“Shit,” Claire breathes out. Her hips arch off the mattress but find nothing but air. “Come here.”

She tugs on Brad’s shoulders until he settles on top of her again, breath catching at the feeling of his bare chest against hers. He kisses her, wet and messy, and Claire’s pretty sure she’s never been this tightly wound in her whole life. Brad ruts into her, erection pressing firmly against her center, and they both swear at the contact. But there are still too many layers in the way, and soon Claire is squeezing her hands between their bodies and undoing the fly of his pants.

Brad stills for an instant before lifting his hips slightly to give her more space. Claire feels a little shaky, but she’s still able to undo the button and lower the zipper in record time, and then she’s shoving his pants down his hips. Brad finishes the job, nearly falling off the bed as he kicks them off his legs, and Claire might have laughed if his hands hadn’t immediately started working on unbuttoning her jeans.

She has to help to get them off (damn skinny jeans) but after the flurry of activity ends they’re dazed and sitting on the mattress in only their underwear. They take each other in, flushed and breathless. Claire’s gaze quickly settles on Brad’s boxers, biting her bottom lip as she gets distracted by how low they’re hanging on his hips.

In that moment, she decides she’s waited long enough. She crawls over to him, puts both hands on his shoulders, and kisses him as she tries to push him over. He’s too sturdy for her to move him but he eventually relents, chuckling at her as he rolls onto his back.

Now that she has him right where she wants him, Claire kisses her way down his body. Her mouth travels down his neck and across his chest before kissing a line down his stomach. She’d intended to tease him more, but she’s so close to where he’s straining against his boxers that she can’t wait any longer.

She carefully pulls his underwear off of him and tosses them somewhere behind her. Now it’s her turn to gape because Brad’s lying there completely naked, rigid cock bobbing against his stomach.

When she wraps her small hand around the base it hits her how surreal it is, touching him like this, but also how right it feels. Brad hisses, arching up into her hand, and she bites her lip and glances up at him. He’s leaning back on his elbows to watch her.

She’s never seen him like this. Lips parted, face flushed, brow knit like it’s taking everything in him to hold himself back. Seeing what _she’s_ done to him makes heat run through her and she has to squeeze her legs together.

He’s so much bigger and stronger than her but she’s still the one in control, and she can’t help but lord it over him a bit. So she smirks at him as she leans down, giving him one slow stroke as her mouth gets nearer to his cock. Brad reaches out with one hand and buries his his fingers in her hair, pushing her locks to the side so he can see her face.

“Jesus, Claire,” he says, voice rough. He grimaces as she licks her lips. “You like to torture a guy, huh?”

She shakes her head and looks up at him through her lashes. “Only you.”

When she finally runs her tongue across his head he hisses and bunches her hair in his fist. She only has a chance to take him fully in her mouth a few times before he swears and sits up. Claire looks at him in surprise as he grips her upper arms and presses her back onto the mattress.

She’s about to complain -- she wasn’t close to being done with him -- when he closes his mouth over her nipple. A soft cry catches in the back of her throat as he flattens his tongue against her and then sucks hard, sending sparks shooting through her veins. He kisses his way to her other breast and gives it the same treatment as his hand teases the sensitive skin on her inner thighs.

Then he works his way down her body, sucking above her hip bone before finally pressing his fingertips against the damp center of her underwear. It’s a light, teasing pressure that has Claire squirming and whining. She’s trying to hide it but her thighs are quaking a bit, desperate for him to stop teasing.

“Brad,” she whines, angling her hips to try to get more relief from his fingers. “What was that you were saying about torture?”

From the way he smirks at her, she knows she’s going to regret saying that.

“Okay then, Harvard. Just tell me what you want.”

She scoffs, hopefully hiding the fact that she’s so turned on she’s actually considering it. But anything even adjacent to dirty talk is out of her comfort zone, so instead she takes it upon herself to lift her hips and push her underwear off.

It seems to be the right move because Brad looks thrown. His mouth hangs open as his eyes devour her now completely naked body. When his gaze lands on the apex of her thighs he licks his lips, which has Claire squirming again.

“_Brad_.”

He blinks, like he’s coming out of a deep trance, and shifts down the mattress until he’s lying between her legs. Claire squeezes her eyes shut and leans her head back against the pillow, waiting. The first touch of Brad’s finger tracing up her slit isn’t anywhere close to enough, but it has her pressing her lips together to stifle a moan. Thankfully he seems to be done with teasing, because next he runs two fingers through her folds and firmly circles her clit.

“_Fuck_, Claire, you’re so wet.”

All she can do is whimper in response because he’s sliding his fingers lower to tease her entrance. When he slips one finger inside she cries out, for once not caring about being quiet. He adds a second finger, and she opens her eyes and looks down her body just in time to see him lower his mouth to where she needs him most.

Claire clutches at his hair as his tongue finds her clit. She moans, hips involuntarily arching off the mattress seeking out more pressure, more fingers, more _him_.

Suddenly, it feels like he’s too far away. She can feel her orgasm slowly start to build inside her but she doesn’t want to come just yet -- not like this, not the first time. So she calls his name and tugs on his hair until he looks up, mouth wet and glistening.

“Brad I-- I need you,” she starts. “Need you inside me.”

He gapes at her, completely slack-jawed, for a long beat before he springs into action. But instead of moving closer to her he inexplicably moves away, half hanging off the bed and fiddling around with something in the floor. Claire watches him, dumbfounded, until he triumphantly comes up with a condom.

She covers her face with her hands as she laughs, listening to him open the wrapper as he reminds her of the importance of always being prepared. She’s still giggling when Brad gently takes her hands and pulls them away from her face. He leans in to kiss her and it’s as sweet and soft as their very first kiss out in the hallway.

Claire loops her arms around his neck as he settles back between her legs. It strikes her that, while she’s had her fair share of good sex, it’s never been this _fun_ before. Warmth fills her chest as Brad pulls back and looks at her like he just might be thinking the same thing.

When he finally pushes inside her Claire feels like everything in her life has clicked into place. He starts slow, letting her get used to the size of him, but soon she’s urging him on, looping her ankles around his back and moaning for all she’s worth.

Normally Claire likes to be on top, be the one in control, but with Brad that urge is gone. Or quieted, at least. It’s already so clear he knows what to do. He can read her so well he easily works out what she wants, but that doesn’t mean he gives it to her right away. He draws things out in a way that she loves (even if she complains).

All too soon, Claire feels that sensation coiling low in her stomach again, and this time she can’t wait any longer.

“_Fuck_, Brad. Please, I’m-- I’m close.”

Brad changes the angle of his hips and drives into her even faster, and she’s so nearly there but it’s still not enough. Claire’s about to slip her hand between their bodies to finish herself off, but he’s one step ahead of her, rubbing his thumb over her clit.

“Jesus Claire, you feel so good,” he whispers in her ear, and she clenches around him. “Come for me baby, okay?”

And that’s all it takes. She comes hard, crying out as Brad continues to pound into her. She always thought this expression was hyperbole, but Claire actually sees stars. She clings to him, nails digging so hard into his back she’s worried she’ll leave a mark. She’s still riding out her orgasm when Brad groans, hips studdering as he comes inside her.

They lie like that, tangled up together and exchanging soft kisses, until they catch their breath. After they take turns using the bathroom they crawl under the duvet and curl up together again, like they’ve both been wanting to for years.

For the first time this whole trip Claire’s not worried about being able to fall asleep. She’s just about to nod off when she feels Brad rub his thumb over her cheek.

“Hey,” he whispers. “I love you.”

Claire opens her eyes and smiles at him. “Say it again.”

“You got a hearing problem, Saffitz?”

“No.” She rolls her eyes, briefly feigning exasperation before her voice turns soft. “Just want to see your face when you say it.”

Brad shakes his head, looking at her like he can’t believe his luck.

“I love you, Claire.”

He sounds so earnest and looks so tender that it makes Claire’s eyes sting. She leans in to give him a few sleepy kisses.

“I love you too, Brad.”

***

(They’re both still smiling when they fall asleep.)

***

Claire’s alarm wakes her up at a godawful time. Still she’s glad she had the presence of mind to set it yesterday morning, because her flight is in a few hours and she still hasn’t packed.

Brad’s sound asleep, snoring lightly, so she kisses him gently on the cheek and carefully disentangles their bodies so she can climb out of bed without waking him. She tiptoes around the room throwing her belongings in her suitcase far too haphazardly for her liking, but somehow she manages to make it all fit.

After she’s packed and dressed she checks on Brad one last time. For someone who claimed to be a light sleeper, he hasn’t even stirred. Claire chews her lip, debating if she should wake him up. She ultimately decides against it -- she knows more than anyone how much he needs the sleep.

Cursing herself for being dead-set on booking the earliest flight out this morning, she goes to the desk and jots a quick note for Brad on the hotel stationary. She tears the sheet off and leaves it atop his pile of discarded clothes, so he won’t miss it.

She’s about to leave when her eye lands on something she’d forgotten. Brad’s hoodie -- the one he lent to her their first night here, when she was cold on the rooftop -- is still lying folded on the dresser.

Even though it’s likely boiling hot outside, Claire pulls it on.

It’ll probably be cold on the plane.

***

Claire feels out of sorts as she waits outside for a taxi. Last night was so incredibly amazing that it almost doesn’t feel real. It’s like she dreamed it into existence.

But it _was_ real (and she has the marks to prove it). Brad loves her (she smiles from just thinking it) and now, finally, he knows she loves him. The only problem is that, after everything, she can’t fight the nagging thought that she still doesn’t know quite where they stand.

Are they together? Are they going to tell their friends and family -- their _coworkers_ \-- back home? Are they willing to put up with the teasing and torment of the BA staff and the smug satisfaction of YouTube commenters who’ve been saying they should get together for years?

She groans, debating if she should call the airline to see if she can get on the later flight with Brad. Just as she’s about to Google the company’s phone number, she hears shouting coming from back in the lobby.

She turns around just in time to see Brad jogging through the automatic glass door, blinking as he steps into the sunlight.

“Oh, Claire,” he says when he spots her, sounding far too casual for someone who was just shouting her name in a crowded lobby.

She somehow suppresses a giggle as she beams at him. He’s in yesterday’s clothes, which are pretty wrinkled, and the buttons on his flanel are all one buttonhole off. And she really must be in love, because she doesn’t think she’s ever been this happy to see anyone in her whole life.

“Hey, Brad,” she says, trying to match his casual tone (and ignore the fact that he’s very much out of breath). “Everything okay?”

He takes a deep breath before closing the distance between them and kissing her. It’s chaste and soft, but even after everything it still makes her heart race.

After they break apart, Brad takes a half step back and cradles her face in his hands.

“Miss your flight,” he says.

Claire blinks. “_What_?”

“Look I know that’s not your thing -- you’ve probably never missed a flight on accident, let alone on purpose -- but I still think you should, okay? Miss your flight, Claire.”

She sighs, searching his face. He’s right -- she’s never even come close to missing a flight. Wouldn’t dream of it. But now, she’s actually considering it. And that’s kind of scary.

“We can’t stay here and form a jazz band, Brad.”

“I _know_,” he says, like she’s being thick. “But we still haven’t had pie-yay-ah. That was the plan Claire. Remember? We decided that back in New York. We can’t go back on the plan.” Then, in a last-ditch effort. “You love plans, Claire.”

She’s smiling so wide her face aches from it, but she doesn’t care; she’s never been this happy. And so she abandons one plan for another.

“Say paella,” she says, taking Brad’s arm and leading him back into the hotel.

“Pie-yell-eh?”

Claire laughs and presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“Come on,” she tells him. “We’ll work on it.”


End file.
